


A Naval Base in a (Landlocked) Sea of Fëar

by Argeus_the_Paladin



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, 艦隊これくしょん | Kantai Collection
Genre: Gen, ISOT, Modern Girl in Middle Earth, Shipgirls in Middle Earth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2019-11-17 22:58:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 39
Words: 122,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18108245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argeus_the_Paladin/pseuds/Argeus_the_Paladin
Summary: In hindsight, the liberal replacement of a mile-square of uninhabited land near the Ettenmoor with a naval district full of shipgirls is only going to end in hilarity and drama.Or, for folks unfamiliar with Kancolle or shipgirls:A chronicle of anthropomorphic personifications of World War II Japanese warships (brought back for a war against grudge-spirits of warships sunk during the same), tossed wholecloth into Middle-earth - along with the modern Japanese base in which they were stationed.





	1. Part the First

**Author's Note:**

> 1) All disclaimers apply: The Hobbit, The Silmarillion and all related work were the property of The Good Professor and presently belongs to The Tolkien Estate. Kantai Collection belongs to Kadokawa Games/DMM. I own little more than the words I write.
> 
> 2) Show of hand: Who could guess I'd be up for something like this after a week full of Kancolle material?
> 
> ... probably everyone.
> 
> This is mainly an exercise in crack, scenario-building, and Magical Sparkly Shipgirl BS among Magical Fireworky Istari BS (And Magical Ring-y Maiar/Noldor BS). Expect snippets and crack treated semi-seriously - the "semi" part is only out of respect for Tolkien's works.
> 
> Still. Crack. You've been warned.

**PART THE FIRST  
IN WHICH ESTEL PLAYED GUARDIAN OF RIVENDELL**   


When it began, Aragorn son of Arathorn, the Man who would one day reunite Arnor and Gondor and usher in the dominion of Man, was but a little boy.  
  
In the immortal words of a certain sage, young Aragorn was an extraordinary boy in many ways, and not entirely because of his destiny. He was as sharp as the keenest of the Dunedain who descended from Numenor of yore; the flame of the West burnt in him fiercely, as did the hope vested into him by his House and his name - Estel he was known among the Elves who fostered him for that reason also.  
  
But he was still a boy, and being a boy meant naturally not privy to matters of great importance of Eriador and Arda. He did not know, for instance, that a very large plot of land where the old land of Rhudaur met the river Mitheithel had been lost forever, in the literal sense of the world. He did not know that a very strange compound just a little less than a mile square had now replaced said plot of land, swapping lush green trees with towering monstrosities of steel and the forest floor with tiling of black tar. He did not know that newcomers had come to Middle-earth, bearing _fear_ and _hroar_ not entirely unlike the children of Iluvatar, yet fundamentally different in several ways.  
  
He did not know that Middle-earth was going to change forever.  
  
What he _did_ know, however, was running into a quad of oddly-dressed and oddly-mannered young women in the forest one day.  
  
Well, _run into_ wasn't exactly right, if only because he saw them long before they saw him; and it wasn't entirely because of how well he was hiding in the woods (although Aragorn would say he was quite good at it too.)  
  
Aragorn had been minding his own business as a merry child brought up by the High Elves, and that meant there was nowhere around Imladris he had not walked. The woods there was old and sacred and well-watched by things most bright and most ancient, and safe for those beloved by the Eldar. More importantly, those woods were _home_ , and one thing Aragorn had learnt very early on in his life was that home was something you should get to _know_ , no matter how large or primordial it was.  
  
It was a beautiful Spring afternoon. The sun was about to set, and the forest around Imladris was glazed golden. Aragorn was walking beneath the boughs of his home, making merry in his own way while waiting for the sun to set and his many friends among the Eldar to pluck their harps under the open, star-lit dome.  
  
Imagine the surprise young Aragorn had got when he found out those woods were no longer just his to walk or just the elves' to watch! He was climbing atop a tall tree – Uncle Halbarad had taught him, and Master Elrohir had given him tips both helpful and plentiful – when he saw _them:_ A group of four girls treading on the forest floor upon which none would walk but elves and elf-friends.  
  
Naturally, Aragorn's first reaction was to run back to Lord Elrond's side and ring an alarm: the Dunedain had lived all their lives in great caution and watchfulness, and not even a child was exempt.  
  
But something stayed his feet. There the girls were walking, flustered and frustrated, amidst the verdant boughs, walking around and around and around some more. In fact, it seemed to him they'd never been in the wilds before. Those clothes of theirs were impractically baggy and those skirts way too fragile. The branches and leaves cracked and rustled beneath their heavy treads. And most importantly – Aragorn found out after but ten minutes of silent observation – they'd been spending a while now essentially walking in circles though their own track in the dirt had been embarrassingly clear.  
  
It wasn't long before the lost girls' frustration bubbled to a head. The girl walking third in the line, brown-haired and pouting, spoke first. But not before a very, very long sigh.  
  
“We're lost _again,_ Ikazuki?” she said. “Inazuma told you so, _nanodesu_.”  
  
The girl at the front shuddered. Her nose seemed pressed onto the pages of an oddly thin notebook; her ginger hair hid every other feature of her face from sight.  
  
“J-just wait for a minute now! I-I think I've got it down right here...” Now she lowered the notebook and pointed... at nothing in particular. “A-all right, let's just turn right here and... and see where it would get us!”  
  
The brown-haired girl stared at her. “Are you sure, _nanodesu_?”  
  
“Why... wouldn't you trust me for a change, Inazuma?”  
  
“You _did_ tell us to depend on you. That was...” said the girl whose hair was flowing silvery-white. Her voice was surprisingly unemotive. “...not _khorosho._ ”  
  
“Augh!” cried the blue-haired – blue-haired! girl. “I've- I've got dirt on my skirt!” She dusted the hem of her skirt. “This... this isn't elegant at all!”  
  
They went on bickering for five minutes straight. It would have been quite humourous, had the circumstances been kinder.  
  
An older Aragorn would have taken pity and led them out of the forest – or at least try to. But now he was a boy of ten. His curiosity took precedence over the kindness of his House, and he would not have wanted to leave questions unanswered at any rate – because the Rangers of the North would not leave questions unanswered if they could help it.  
  
At the very least, he told himself, he had been kind enough. He hadn't laugh at their borderline incompetent sense of direction in the wilds, which was more than could have been said for Elladan and Elrohir and some of the jollier elves in the Last Homely House.  
  
So Aragorn trailed behind the quad with little thought. He swept behind them, his feet were light on the forest floor, more craftily and quietly than most ten-year-old boys could have and while his was nowhere as silent as an elf's tread those girls were making far too much noise to notice. Even the vague sense of danger of such an act did not deter him much: for he had with him a short bow and a hunting knife, and with Elladan and Elrohir as masters he had had more than a ten-year-old's fair share of training.  
  
But it was finally the brunette who gave up first. “We should radio base, _nanodesu_.” She threw her arm in the air... and caught her sleeve on a snag. “Hawawawa!”  
  
Blue Hair shuffled in place. “Augh, this is so unladylike!” she said. But then all of a sudden she froze in place. “Wait. Did you hear that?”  
  
“Hear... what?” said Ginger Hair. “Come on, Akatsuki! There aren't supposed to be any Abyssals on land, are there?” She paused. “ _Are_ there?”  
  
“Not that we know of,” said Silver Hair.  
  
“Now, now, a lady has to be careful of all things!” Now Blue Hair's voice was dreadfully serious. “They can _fabricaticize_ out of anywhere!” Aragorn could hear his heart thump.  
  
“You mean materialize,” said Silver Hair. “But... Akatsuki is right. Ikazuki, Inazuma. Prepare yourselves.”  
  
Then Aragorn stared at Silver Hair and saw for himself some distinctly unpleasant thing. Or rather, something that could be distinctly unpleasant. Tubes appeared in her grip. Large contraptions emerged from their back, angular and oddly-shaped. Her eyes narrowed, and Aragorn shuddered.  
  
Then came blue, orange and ginger. Without a word they formed up into a square. Four arms rose, and with them the dangerous-looking tubes they brandished.  
  
At that precise moment Aragorn was not sure which was chiefest in his mind: fear or curiosity. He had never quite seen anything so strange yet so vaguely threatening before. He debated with himself what he should do: to run, to hide, or to stay and see how events would unfold.  
  
In the end, he chose the last option. His reasoning was, for a ten-year-old, understandable. The chiefest lesson the Eldar had imparted upon him was that beautiful things could not have been made by the Shadow, for that which it touched were always misshapen and foul. At the same time, sophisticated and angular things made of steel were to be treated with some measures of distrust.  
  
Then a thought sparked to him. If _they'd_ been so anxious and nervous in the first place, surely he could drive them off without a fight, could he? Yes, indeed, Lord Elrond would be proud of him, for he had always taught wisdom and peace to all who belonged not with the Shadow, hadn't he?  
  
So thinking, young Aragorn puffed his chest. Up an old tree he climbed, and made his way to a vantage point, hidden among the leaves.  
  
“You trespass on sacred ground, o strangers of steel!” he cried, and was proud of himself: his voice was not kingly, not yet, but there was authority and no trace of hesitation. “In the name of Lord Elrond Peredhel Earendilion Master of the Last Homely House, I bid you _leave_! Tarry no more in our land and your transgression shall yet be forgiven; proceed and grave evils shall surely befall you!”  
  
“Uwawawa!” cried Brown Hair. “What... what is that, _nanodesu_?”  
  
“A voice,” said White Hair matter-of-factly.  
  
“A-a-a-a ghost?” exclaimed Blue Hair.  
  
“Not impossible,” said White Hair. “Miss Nagato did tell us to watch out for... _weird things_ in these woods.”  
  
“D-don't scare me like that, Hibiki!” snapped Blue Hair. “T-that's so unladylike and-”  
  
“I am merely stating what we had been told.”  
  
“Um...” said Brown Hair. “M-maybe it would be good to be _careful_ , _nanodesu_!”  
  
The quad stared at each other for what seemed like an age and a half, and it was all Aragorn could do not to breathe so hard. Finally Brown Hair stepped forward, dusted her sleeve and clasped her hands.  
  
“Um... We- we're sorry, Mr. Ghost, _nanodesu,_ ” she said. “It's not like we _wanted_ to be here or anything, _nanodesu_. We-we're just sort of-”  
  
“Yeah, well, guess we're lost,” said Ginger Hair. She puffed her chest... only for the facade of bravery to crack and shatter. “S-so, uh... c-could you please please please tell us how to leave this forest? Or... or where's the nearest path to wherever! B-because...”  
  
“You admitted,” interjected White Hair.  
  
“H-hey! No fair, Hibiki! I'm j-just-”  
  
This was the part where every inch of self-control in Aragorn was summoned to not blurt out in laughter. “Surely you want to leave?” he asked.  
  
“Y-yes!”  
  
Aragorn puffed his chest. “Well, then, perhaps I can help you with it-” he said, and was rightly so proud of himself.  
  
But young Aragorn, being young and therefore careless, had forgotten two important things.  
  
One, Master Elrohir had told him – more than once – never to stay on any branch longer than was absolutely necessary.  
  
And two, this particular branch of this particular old tree was very, very ancient and very, very thin.  
  
The next thing Aragorn heard were two: His heart stopping, and the distinct sound of wood snapping.  
  
He plunged ten feet down right on top of a very unfortunate bush that happened to be in the way. On instinct he'd flipped and turned and crossed his arms over his face. It could only help so much: young Aragorn heard a _thud_ and at once felt a lot of pain all over as he crashed face-down into the bush.  
  
What happened in the next few minutes was a bit blurry. Pain. Gasps. Pain. Footsteps. More pain. Some shouting.  
  
There was the sound of leaves and foliage being rustled over. And amidst the commotion, there was this one voice he could hear.  
  
“Hueeh?” it said: so clear and so dangerously _close_. “A-a boy, _nanodesu_?”

 


	2. Part the Second

**PART THE SECOND  
IN WHICH GANDALF TREATED A TORPEDO GIRL TO ELEVENSIES**

  
Gandalf had been used to making odd friendships. He befriended hobbits, both the respectable kind who avoided adventure and the not so respectable who embraced it. He befriended shapechangers, though that was less friendship and more mutual wariness. He befriended giant eagles, one part as fellow envoys of Manwe and one part because having friends in high place was good for many a reason. He befriended horse-lords and stewards of the realm of Man, for the youngest of the Children of Iluvatar always needed guidance, though they might not always be so aware.  
  
Obviously, the next step up was to befriend oddly-dressed girls wearing angular armament of steel who walked on water.  
  
It began, as was most things involving a wizard, neither too early nor too late but exactly when it was meant to, unintentional as it might have been.  
  
He was taking a short rest off the road and the marking-stones. He was sitting at the water's edge, well within sight of the Ford, and there put his pony to graze. It was a fine morning, and the water was very clear and the air very cool. Gandalf had just left Elrond's Homely House, you see, and his heart and mind both were heavy with anxiousness.  
  
Something had changed in Arda, quite permanently. Elven scouts who traveled far north to Ettenmoor had spoken of a very large citadel, tall and rigged with steel, arising overnight (or otherwise over a very short time) upstream of the Bruinen. They had spoken of great thunderclaps, like thunder-battles fought by stone giants where neither men nor elves frequented up the slopes of the Misty Mountain. And they had spoken, too, of girls and young women in oddly-styled skirts, walking and gliding on water as though skating on ice.  
  
They reported something else, too: that they saw, when they would squint their eyes and see true, the shape of ships that took to sail behind those women. Not the swan-ships of Mithlond that promised the everlasting embrace of Valinor, nor the war vessels of Gondor that ruled the seas to the distant South, nor, even, the raggedly corsair-ships carrying black sails and black-hearted ruffians from the shadows of Umbar.  
  
What they did saw, was iron, steel, tall spires and many a tube protruding, that promised flame and death.  
  
Of this matter Elrond did not speak much further, but his lack of response only meant one thing: His scouts had spoken true. After all, the Bruinen was Elrond's domain. He would have known and dispelled any rumour of falsehood.  
  
All in all, a very worrying and burdening business, not least when he had another adventure he would like to make happen.  
  
Gandalf must have been sitting there for a while, for the sun had now risen well over his head. He was, indeed, about to return to his pony and resume his journey with a heavy heart when many splashes in the water ahead alerted him.  
  
He craned his neck and narrowed his eyes, and indeed! From the upstream came a girl, traveling on the water, like a white elven-ship from Mithlond. Gandalf noted her hair was a short-cut mass of magenta. Very strange colour, indeed, but stranger still were her mode of travel. She was walking on water on those angular high boots of hers, gliding on the water of the Loudwater like it was solid land.  
  
But now Gandalf sat and set his gaze upon her, and looked deep into her being. What he saw was... peculiar, to say the least.  
  
For what he saw there was a girl and a ship, both at once. The _ship_ part was, for want of better words, quite awesome to behold. It was a sleek, tall thing made of iron and tall spires and many bulwarks bristling with very large tubes, and so very large as to dwarf many a Gondorian vessels even in those days the Men of the South would rule the sea as its indisputable master. It sailed, turning water aside in great quantities, as it traveled in the exact space where the girl was - as little sense as it made.  
  
But if Gandalf would blink, and blink he did, the ship would turn into mist and there would be the girl again, small and meek and so vulnerable.  
  
_Elrond's scouts reported true_.  
  
There was only one way to find out: He waited, and waited, and waited until he could well see the crescent lapel on her coat. Then he cleared his voice.  
  
“Why, good morning, my dear miss!” he said.  
  
His very loud call at once succeeded in two things: startling the girl, and causing her two swing around towards his general direction with her arm raised.  
  
“W-who goes there?”  
  
There were those tubes strapped to her arm that Gandalf had an inkling he did not want pointed at him. After all, he did take great pride in his firework contraptions and knew how they worked. The more alarming was the ship: its many barrels were now cranking up and about with the noise of so much gnashing steel.  
  
That only meant he should answer in courtesy, and fast.  
  
“A traveler, on the East-West Road taking respite from the wearysome travel!” he answered. “You would excuse an old man looking to water his pony, wouldn't you?”  
  
“You... are not an enemy.” she said. “Right?”  
  
“I have no ill will, if that is what you asked,” said Gandalf.  
  
Now the girl who walked on water stood her ground. Her tubes were lowered, but her posture was stiff, as if telling him she could arm herself again and quickly if he tried anything funny. The _ship_ , too, began to turn its many tubes away from him. Gandalf squinted and saw it listing, just barely noticeably, towards his side of the river-bank.  
  
Then Gandalf heard, and saw, other things. He saw the silhouette of many a cute adorable little things, that shuffled and skidded and weaved their ways through the deck of that _ship_. There were many squeaks of "death" from above and below the deck, and above the tall spire that was the girl's back. (except it sounded oddly pronounced, more like "dess" to his ears, and carried none of the thread the word implied - very odd, Gandalf noted). Was it an implied threat?  
  
But then, the girl was only getting more flustered and not at all looking willing to start a fight. The only fight of hers, apparently, was in choosing what word to use.  
  
“What do you want from me?” she said, only to jerk back, seemingly outraged at her own words. “Uh... that was rude, wasn't it? I'm sorry!”  
  
“Apologies well accepted, my dear miss,” said Gandalf, straitening his pointy hat. “I happen to be interested in sharing a story or two on the road, if you wouldn't mind. wouldn't impose you to come ashore if you do not so wish. At any rate an old man grows restless and talkative.”  
  
Which was entirely explainable. She had no reason to trust him. Not yet. Nor did he have reasons to trust her, but Gandalf was the greater man and therefore would like to do something about it. He turned his empty hands towards her. No weapon. No armament. No tools of magic.  
  
“Um... who are you, sir? And what are _you_ doing here?”  
  
“Well, now, that is quite the valid question,” he said. “And your answer, my dear miss, is I am Gandalf and Gandalf means me (and that means many other things, though you don't necessarily know of it).” He took one step closer to the river bank. “And my business has something to do with a small company of not very agreeable dwarves and their even less agreeable noble leader.”  
  
His answer was half-truthful – because there was no reason to _completely_ lie. Lying blatantly was beneath him, after all – he _was_ Gandalf and Gandalf meant him!  
  
The word _dwarf_ did draw her closer to the shore. “Dwarves? Isn't it _mean_ to call someone a _dwarf_?”  
  
Ah, of course, Gandalf thought, tucking his long beard into his silver belt. If these _people_ (ships?) had only come to Middle-earth as suddenly as the story must imply, it would stand to reason they didn't know too much about Arda. Much less about dwarves, either.  
  
“You would know one, my dear miss, when you see one. Stout and short to a man; wearing long beards in fanciful braids – and decent enough folk as long as you don't expect too much.” He paused. “And words are, their womenfolks are largely indistinguishable from the men.”  
  
Now the girl was intrigued all right. She skitted closer to the water's edge, and Gandalf saw, again, a very large anchor wholly of iron trembling in its port, as if the captain was wondering whether to make portfall or not.  
  
But she had got closer now: just close enough for Gandalf to hear her stomach rumbling. Some of the little things going "death" ("Dess"?) above the deck were making anxious faces and waving their little flags about, as if in very grave distress.  
  
As for the girl, her face was turned slightly red.  
  
“Hungry, aren't you?” asked Gandalf. “Well, then, it's about time for elevensies, as many of my friends call it. Do join me, if you wouldn't mind?”  
  
“Eeh? N-no, I wouldn't dare to impose-” The grumbling grew louder, and the chorus of "Dess" ("Death"?) grew more desperate. “... nyan.”  
  
Now Gandalf stayed his hand, and thought - very quickly. He had truly never seen such things before, and though he had forgotten much of his days before the Sun and Moon rose, he was _quite_ certain 'girls who are actually ships' had never been part of the One's design.  
  
But if there was one thing Gandalf would swear by, it was such: That there was no evil that was born, only evil that was made.  
  
“It is hospitality on the road, my dear miss,” he said. “I can assure you hospitality may be a thing of the past in many less civilized place on this green earth, but for many it is true still; and as much a rule for travelers as those imposed upon by the King. Back when a King worthy of the name still ruled the North, if I should say so.”  
  
Gandalf didn't stop making the food ready. It was a hearty ration, even for a hobbit: there was bread, there was sausages and ham, there was a few slices of sweet pastries from Elrond's own kitchen, and a nice handful of berries picked along the way. The food was fresh and aromatic, as was the wont of good things from Rivendell. He stood there for a while, looking thoughtful, then wrapped it all in a piece of parchment and dangled it in front of her her.  
  
“If you would come ashore-”  
  
For a moment the girl hesitated. Then – and Gandalf couldn't quite possibly know what tipped her over – she left the water. Her very heavy iron-shod boots vanished, in its place an ordinary-looking, dainty cloth shoes. The heavy armament like a black tower on her back vanished.  
  
And, lo, the ship had vanished too, and become little more than a vestige behind her back. It brimmed, sure, with emotions of all kinds, both the good and the bad. But now there was a shade of great joy that had swam to the surface of all that - and there was a corresponding small smile on her face, shy and bashful. She inched closer to the place-mat, and plopped down on her knees. She kept sitting there, stiffly, as Gandalf unrolled the parchment in front of her.  
  
When she finally said again, it was a whisper in a language Gandalf had not heard before. “ _I-itadakimasu_.”  
  
She wouldn't say very much about herself, except her name, Mutsuki ' _of the 3rd Torpedo Squad_ ', whatever it meant, and her task, which was apparently to see how far the Bruinen reached to the South. If not for Gandalf's great store of tales cobbled together through so many thousands of years, it would have been an arduous and awkward elevensies.  
  
So Gandalf spoke. He told stories. He related tales. He told her of things that dwelt in the East and things further South: of a great mountain range, of a vast forest that walked, of a very wide meadow where the finest chargers of the land were raised, of a white citadel standing in defiance of the darkness through thick and thin. He told her of the Barrow and evil things that yet remained asleep in the dark. He told her, too, a little more of those _dwarves_ she asked about: a proud and secretive race, and terribly tragic in their own ways.  
  
It was not an uncalculated bit of story-telling: for if the girl and whoever she came with truly came from beyond Arda, then it would be good to inspire them to spare such affection for Middle-earth as to aid its cause – or at least do it no harm.  
  
So far it was working: she was looking to him the whole time, arms crossed, leaning a little towards him. She blinked very little, and, Gandalf noted, she ate very little too. She only nibbed on the end of the loaf – which didn't help her rumbling stomach very much. The rest she wrapped up, carefully, almost motherly in demeanor, and stowed it away. The chorus of "Death" ("Dess"?) became more joyful and hopeful over the deck of that ship Gandalf saw.  
  
“I thought you were hungry,” said Gandalf.  
  
“Ehehe, I guess I am.” Then her face suddenly turned grim. “But my friends are hungry too.”  
  
_But of course_ , thought Gandalf, and groaned inside. A citadel suddenly appearing out of nowhere without any hinterland for sustenance meant inviting trouble, after all.  
  
“Tell me more about it,” said Gandalf. “Perhaps I can help.”  
  
She fidgeted on the surface. “Um...” she said sheepishly. “Sorry, I don't think I am authorized to say anything more...”  
  
_But of course_ , again Gandalf thought. Elrond's scouts did say those _girls_ had something distinctly military about them. In which case the state of their granary stock, as were other things of security, well, that was well and truly a vital matter best kept secret even from the camp.  
  
But Gandalf's mind immediately started working. There might be a solution, after all. A mutually beneficial solution at that.  
  
“Perhaps you would be interested,” he suggested, “in finding new ways to acquire food.”  
  
Putting another emergency food supply had been far from his thoughts since the Fell Winter. It had been a lot of effort, too: the rest of Eriador was hungry then.  
  
But that was then. The situation was quite different now: the elves' stores were full, the farmlands in those land of the North untouched by the Shadow had seen a few excellent harvests, and the hobbits had had the best years of tubers of all kinds in a generation.  
  
Those were things Eriador could afford to give to a friend who might one day give back.  
  
“I... uh... I mean this is not my decision to make...” She fidgeted more, and now seemed all too uncomfortable and ready to dart off over the water again. “I'll have to report to our Admiral, and-”  
  
Gandalf nodded sagaciously. “That would indeed be good. If you do, please tell him this also: I am looking for a good few people to join in an adventure that would begin very soon. Why, I am well on my way to make preparations and provisions of all kind for this journey.” he said. “If your _Admiral_ would assist, then in exchange, I suppose I could broker a trade with some jolly folks some distance away, for foodstuff, delicacies and other vital supplies.”  
  
Slowly, hesitantly, the girl nodded. “I'll tell him,” she said quietly.  
  
“Very good, very good,” said Gandalf. “In the meantime-” He unloaded a sack full of food for the road off his pony. He heaved it – with some difficulties – and dragged it along to the girl. “-you can have this.”  
  
He opened the sack, revealing inside it all of his packed supplies for the journey of a month all the way to Hobbiton. He nodded as the girl's eyes went wide.  
  
“The whole sack?” she exclaimed. “But-but-”  
  
“Yes, the whole sack – my friends are close by and they would not begrudge me a little food to help those in dire need. And something more.”  
  
He clasped his hands, hiding the ring on his finger. Warmth radiated from the Ring of Fire, till the surrounding was bathed in a thin light, red and orange and quite invigorating if Gandalf had to say so himself. Gandalf looked on, as the gloomness and uncertainty on the girl's face _melted_ away. The many delightful, adorable shapes were about her, and the noises they made now sounded much less like "Death" and far more like "Dess" - again, whatsoever that was supposed to mean.  
  
“I see you haven't a lot of hope,” he said. “So take it. Take hope, even if you wouldn't take my food, and bring my word to whoever sent you.”  
  
The next thing she did was startling enough: she lifted the very large sack and hauled it over her shoulder like a bag of cotton. There was a broad smile on her face.  
  
“I'll be sure to tell the Admiral all about it!” she said. “Thank you, Gandalf- _san_!”  
  
“No, thank _you_ , my dear Miss Mutsuki,” said Gandalf, now taking off his hat. “Until we meet again, I hope.” He waved it at her, as the girl glided back the way the came, to the upstream of the Loudwater where this citadel ostensibly lay. The moment her feet touched the water, she _became_ a ship again: stout and steady as she went.  
  
It wasn't a talk that mattered much. It might not even be the beginning of a friendship. But it was a thoughtful conversation. And being Gandalf meant thoughtful conversations were always welcome respite from the endless travel.  
  
There was a time for further questions, yes, but for now, Gandalf would rest satisfied he had brought hope to a ship that was a girl (or a girl that was a ship) and the many, many delightful creatures that dwelt on her "deck".  
  
Though, now he had to return to Rivendell _again_ to restock his rations and delay his journey.  
  
_Worth it._


	3. Part the Third

**PART THE THIRD  
IN WHICH 41-CM GUNS WERE FIRED IN IMLADRIS**

  
The Last Homely House was always open to guests and visitors as a rule, as long as said guests were fair friends and considerate company. Today, Elrond was opening his doors to outlandish visitors – perhaps even literally so.  
  
“Admiral Tetsuna Ojime, of the Japanese Self-Defense Force,” said the guest. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”  
  
The 'Admiral', as he introduced himself, was a grandfatherly-looking Man with a well-groomed moustache and cleanly shaven chin. He was clad in a white suit with several medals pinned on the chest, perhaps livery brought from his own world.  
  
He had arrived, as had his two escorts, through the tributary of the Bruinen that cleft through the valley of Imladris. Now he stood there before Elrond, proud and confident, flanked by two women wearing distressingly revealing clothing and oddly-shaped coronets. A strange choice of bodyguards, he thought, and hoped this quirkiness did not reflected a deviant – or otherwise unpleasant – personality.  
  
But making assumptions at this point would be terribly presumptive and discourteous, thought Elrond. So straightened his posture, and offered his hand, as he would to any visitors to his House.  
  
“And I am Master Elrond Peredhel,” he said. “This is my House, o stranger, and my people bid you welcome so long as you leave any ill will at the gate.”  
  
The Admiral grasped his hand, tight and sharp, and nodded once. “No ill will whatsoever, sir,” he said.  
  
Whether their meeting was to be a prelude to peace or war was, of course, not for Elrond to decide. Much as the Eldar held hospitality sacred, there was scant wisdom opening his doors to strangers who bore arms and queer things. The cautionary tale of Celebrimbor remained, and even without it there had been no lack of treachery and tragedy in the history of the Noldor kin who had long ere left the light of Valinor behind.  
  
Yet all the same there was wisdom in offering peace before resorting to war. There was wisdom, too, in extending hospitality to those who had not decided whether to side with you or against you.  
  
So he led the visitors through the great arches that led into his guest-hall. He invited the three of them, as he would invite Mithrandir – or any visitor from Mithlond above and Lothlorien below – to his great table that looked out into the waterfall. There was tea, there was pastry, there was ample breeze sweeping across the landscape below. It was a good place for friends to cajole, and perhaps even for enemies to talk.  
  
The Admiral began as soon as he had sat down. “I should thank you," he said, "for returning Akatsuki and her sisters to us. We were just about to send out a search team.”  
  
Elrond nodded silently. It had been indeed a very fortunate thing and spoken measures of both sides' good will that neither side had got the bright idea of holding the other's members as hostage. It would have harmed the cause of the Free Peoples beyond redress had something unsavoury happened to young Estel.  
  
“Pray don't mention it,” said Elrond, “for my House would extend hospitality to any who came not in war, and see that no harm is visited upon them.” Here he paused, and then began again, more earnestly. “My charge had spoken very highly of your... men.” The word 'girls' had crossed his mind – for such was how the _people y_ oung Estel had met in the woods looked and sounded and behaved like – but Elrond had been careful.  
  
In fact, Elrond was not entirely truthful. Young Estel had not particularly praised the four girls, but then it was hard for a proud ten-year-old Dunadan to praise anyone amounting to trespassers in his home. Not particularly when they'd discovered him sprawling unflatteringly in a bush and taken him all the way to The Last Homely House itself. Given the circumstances, that Estel did _not_ speak ill of them at all was itself the highest praise they could have got.  
  
The Admiral nodded at him understandingly.  
  
“Likewise, Master Elrond, sir,” he said. “Inazuma had nothing but good words to say about him.” Here he chuckled. “She asked, and I quote, if she could ' _bring him home with me_ '.”  
  
Elrond stiffened. “I'm afraid that's out of the question,” he said gravely – because this was not a matter he could afford to jest about. “Young Estel has a grand destiny awaiting him, for which he shall remain here ere he makes himself ready for such greatness as bestowed upon him.”  
  
The long-haired woman's eyebrows quirked. The shorter-haired hid her giggle behind her palm. As for the Admiral, he only shrugged.  
  
“Pardon us,” he said. “The girls of the Sixth Destroyer Squadron are not known for their tactfulness or observance of local customs.”  
  
Elrond dipped his head – stiffly. “ _Girls_ , you said!” he repeated. “Yes, indeed, that was what my scouts have informed me about your troops, Admiral, even before my charge came across them lost in our wood. Vaguely human _girls_ bearing many tubes and scaffolding of iron and steel, they said. But I was much confused, now that I had chanced to meet some of them; they are too young as warriors and even younger to be soldiers.” He added just a measure of coldness to his voice so as not to break the veil of diplomacy. “I beg your pardon for my presumptuousness that _something_ is amiss with you and your... companions. I should like the truth, if you would indulge me.”  
  
That was a very truncated version of the truth he was aware of. The four girls that came to his doorsteps with blushes on their faces had been ships - or something bearing the fading vestiges of what used to be ships, their decks and cabins full of little fairy-like creatures that chirped and shuffled about. Mithrandir had met another, blushing and bashful though she might have been too, but very clearly a ship all the same. And now the women here: they were tall and proud, yes; but deep beneath them there were those creatures also, so many and mischievous, manning all sorts of war machines of steel and iron and fire and smoke.  
  
Elrond had dealt with elves and Men and, on multiple occasions, the Ainur who had awoken ere Time began. This was new to him - and that was a cause of great concern. All the same such queerness had come to his doors presenting friendship.  
  
It was a chance he had decided to take.  
  
The Admiral's lips curled. “With all due respect, Master Elrond.” He smiled – slyly. “If I were to tell you the whole story, it would take us weeks.”  
  
Then Elrohir, as passionate as he was youthful and impetuous, sprang up from his seat. “With all due respect, indeed!” he cried. “Let me kindly remind you, Admiral, you are in _Ada_ 's hall. We are entertaining you with sincerity. It is the least courtesy you could have returned us to do likewise.”  
  
He began shuddering even before Elrond motioned him to sit down. It was impolite. Besides, the two women next to him were eyeing him fiercely – their gazes were awesomely chilling and their weapons at the very ready. The ship-women, notwithstanding whatsoever purposes they had awokened, made for particularly effective bodyguards.  
  
“Peace, Elrohir.” he said. “As I said, there is no ill will inside my House, not if I can help it. I shall not ask you to divulge more than you should like, though I wish that you speak no falsehood within these walls.”  
  
The Admiral, too, raised his hand, gesturing his bodyguards to stand down. There was an inscrutable smile on his lips.  
  
The long-haired woman's gaze mellowed. But only just. “Sir-” she said, her body barely moving at all. “Yes, sir.”  
  
“Very well then, sir.” He drained his cup to the dredge. “That's some most excellent tea – Kongou would have liked it I think. I'd like some more, please; we'd be here for a while,” he said with a diplomatic – vaguely deferential – bow. “You asked what my soldiers are, Master Elrond. I thought it would be good to let them speak on their own behalf.” He turned his head to the left, and then right. “Nagato, Mutsu. Introduce yourselves.”  
  
“Sir,” she said, and stepped forward with a bow. “Master Elrond. I am the secretary-ship Nagato, name-ship of the Nagato-class.” Her voice was like folded steel.  
  
“And I am Mutsu!” she said. Her voice was less steel and a lot more playful. “Second ship of the Nagato-class! Nice to meet you!”  
  
All in all a right standard introduction. Except, of course, for one particular thing: which confirmed his doubts and his eyes all along.  
  
“Ship?” said Elrond. “I beg your pardon, I thought I heard you said you are... ships?”  
  
“Yes, yes, sir,” said the Admiral. “Indeed they did, and they would be right.”  
  
Elrond made every effort not to react in an outwardly outraged way. There was no deception that he saw: because no matter how he looked he saw there women at the same time he saw giant machines of war far larger and more fearsome than any ships save his father's, now flying over the night sky bearing the Silmaril. But that paradoxical existence alone required explanation, if not ironclad evidence.  
  
“For a splendid Man like yourself, my dear sir,” said Elrond, “such a grand claim would no doubt be backed by reason, wouldn't it?”  
  
“I can do better,” he said. “We would gladly provide irrefutable evidence so long as there is...” He adjusted his glass and make a show of looking towards the outdoors. “enough space to deploy some particularly heavy-duty naval artillery.”  
  
“Please, be my guest,” he said.  
  
They left the table. Elrond led the guests, along with a small number of his most loyal men, down from the great balcony through the winding stairway to the great training-yard of Imladris. It was no great court of his forebears in Beleriand, nor the vast musters of the Horse-lords of the South, but it was in all ways a sufficiently large yard where grass grew and flowers bloom. The Bruinen flowed past the yard, cool and clear all year round. It was a great place for poetry and war alike, and for tea also.  
  
“Is this sufficient?” he asked.  
  
To his surprise, the women shrugged. “Still a little cramped,” said the blonde.  
  
“But we shall make do,” said her sister.  
  
Then they stepped forward, one step at a time. They kept walking and walking, and before anyone could warn them about the water being _right there_ , they had stepped into it.  
  
And then the miracle – or horror, depending on perspective – happened.  
  
They floated. No, 'float' was an incorrect description that did them scant justice. They were walking on the water's surface as if it had been dry land.  
  
Elrond didn't blink once. The tall tales his guards had been telling now turned out to be no tall tale at all.  
  
But now the women raised their right arms to their shoulder. Behind them, in a flash of bright light, manifested scaffoldings of steel, sheets of steel, tubes of steel, platings of steel... arranged behind them in a vaguely ship-like composition – except compacted to Man-size. Such scaffolding arose amidst many gasps around Elrond: they were too large, too bulky, too solid to have been worn by any Man or Elf. And yet the women were wearing them as though they were but backpacks filled with cotton. The metal parts clanked, they clicked, they cracked, they locked themselves in place; the rumbling of iron and steel was deafening.  
  
It made no sense, and so much sense all the same.  
  
At this sight Elrond's guards at once went up and about him. They jumped in front of him and raised their shields and spears.  
  
“Explain yourself!” cried Gildor Inglorion of the House of Finrod, at the head of the group. “What is this devilry?”  
  
The Admiral was, to his credit, surprisingly calm. He stood up straight, and looked Gildor in the eyes. “Please don't get me wrong, I have no intention for our meeting to turn into a gun-measuring contest,” he said. “All the same... I thought some demonstration would help speed up matters.”  
  
“Is it – is _all of this_ – safe?” snarled his loyal Gildor.  
  
The long-haired woman stopped whatever it was that she was doing. She turned around, and shot Gildor a very stern gaze. “It is,” she said. “If you would let us _work_.”  
  
“Gildor, _mellon_ ,” said Elrond with a wave of his hand. “Let them.”  
  
Very reluctantly Gildor stepped back. Still they surrounded Elrond, as was the wont of the Noldor in the face of danger and treachery against their lord.  
  
But here Elrond looked to his loyal knights, and shook his head gently.  
  
“ _You saw it, didn't you?_ ” he whispered in the High-elven tongue. “ _That these women are_ ships _of iron and steel. You must have.”_  
  
_“That I have, my lord, though of these waning days I would often give my own eyes little trust - and even less trust would I give to strangers of such natures,_ ” said Gildor anxiously.  
  
“ _If they had wanted to do us ill, we would have easily been slain where we stood ever since those four girls came through our doors with Estel alongside,”_ said Elrond, “ _for mighty though we might be against such weight of fire and steel we are helpless_.”  
  
Then, he turned towards the women, waving his hand and nodded slowly.  
  
“You have heard me,” he said. “Do as you design.”  
  
At this the two women nodded also. Perhaps for caution they took three large steps further along the water, distancing themselves further from the audience.  
  
“Stand well back, gentlemen,” said the ship (woman?) called Nagato. “I have no desire to create a diplomatic incident for friendly fire.”  
  
Then she placed her fingers on her temple. “Load practice rounds. Open all gun-ports. Anti-air guns to maximum elevation. Angle main guns fifty-seven degrees.” Her voice rose to a crescendo. “Fire on my order.”  
  
The woman (ship?) called Mutsu was grinning, narrow-eyed. “Aye, aye, _onee-san_!”  
  
Then Nagato nodded, and looked straight forward. Her eyes were blazing.  
  
“FIRE!”  
  
What Elrond heard next was a most thunderous sound the likes of which he had not heard in many thousand years. A screen of black smoke and flame that rivaled the tumultuous Orodruin spitting soot and ember rose, searing and blinding. A gust of great gale whipped and lashed at his face, fell and terrible. The river quaked; a great quantity of water spilled over the bank and drenched the grass deep into the soil.  
  
When the flash faded and the dust settled and the waters calmed, the first thing Elrond did was look to the direction the women had been looking.  
  
There, across the hillside, miles and miles away, puffs of dust were rising above the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purpose of this story - and logically speaking - there is no way the Admiral would not be a key player. He's the authority figure, he's basically got full autonomy to handle the shipgirls as he thinks fit*, and unlike Japan where there's a long tradition since the Sengoku era of the leader oftentimes not being the main decisionmaker, this is Middle-earth where legitimate leadership accounts for a whole lot.
> 
> So what I do, is create an Admiral character who is an idealized version of the featureless PC. Someone who, like in the anime, someone like Nagato has absolutely no trouble following till the end of the earth. A caretaker. A commander. A father to his men (shipgirls?). Someone who would play a vital role in the inevitable diplomacy and politicking in the brave new Arda with the dignitaries of the Free Peoples and beyond.
> 
> Next problem, this Admiral would need a name. I could choose a generic Japanese name, but that would lack edge, given my "idealized Admiral" characterization. Solution? Apply zhe zi (「折字」) as a method of wordplay! What I did was break down「提督」(the Kanji for Admiral) into its component radicals:「手是叔目」(Hand – Justice – Uncle – Eye, which, by a fortunate coincidence, would perfectly describe the personality of an ideal Admiral), and look for a combined kun-nanori reading that isn't too outlandish. I hope it is a satisfactory option.
> 
> Now the biggest challenge is for this Admiral not to steal the show...
> 
> Coming up next: Two carriers argue. One carrier starves.
> 
> * And yes, there's a fanfic I found on this very site, Life of Female Admiral, that explored what exactly would happen if the wrong kind of person gets into a position that entitles them full control over the life and death of what amounted to women who are living weapons. It's heartbreakingly not pretty.


	4. Part the Fourth

 

**PART THE FOURTH  
IN WHICH TENRYUU POKED ELVEN PASTRY WITH A SWORD**

  
  
  
_This was insane_ , thought Fubuki.  
  
She was staring at her plate like it had contained all the answers to the mysteries of the world. Of _this_ world, at any rate.  
  
The last weeks had been insane in a very bad way. Even Mamiya's cafe was no longer a haven for rest, relaxation and the occasional zany schemes by whichever fleetgirl high on parfait. Not when they'd ostensibly _vanished_ from the world only to reappear somewhere in another, unknown world.  
  
She needed not be the Admiral _or_ Nagato _-san_ to know they were in a lot of trouble – so much so, _a lot of trouble_ was an understatement.  
  
Even putting aside the fact that their _entire fleet_ had essentially committed desertion...  
  
Even putting aside the fact that mankind was basically doomed without them around to defend the coast...  
  
Even putting aside the fact that, well, there was nothing for them fleetgirls to fight – which invalidated their very reason for existence...  
  
There was the more pressing concern of _supplies_. Because a fleet of a hundred ships without any real way to resupply would spell disaster; again, she didn't need to be the Commander or Nagato to know.  
  
They were very, very far from the sea (according to recon reports anyway). The land around them was largely unknown and they'd spent the last week trying to comb the immediate vicinity - and beyond. Planes were sent in all directions. The destroyers were dispatched along the river, and where there was no water, over the banks and miles inland.  
  
It had been an extremely fatiguing week, not helped by dwindling supplies and the sheer _despair_ at how sparsely populated and low-tech their new world is. Settlements were few and far between - at least within several hundred miles - and those few townships were _tiny_. No industrial centers. No radio signal. No electrical infrastructure. And - this Fubuki saw herself - there were a lot of old ruins dotting the landscape. It was like one of those post-apocalyptic novels she'd caught Hacchan reading once. It was infinitely more depressing when she saw it with her own eyes.  
  
Through all of this, a corner of her mind kept telling her, maybe there was a bright side to it all. With all of the fleetgirls in another world, there would be no source of new Abyssals either. The cycle was broken.  
  
But no, no, no, she shook her head at herself, that wasn't right. All of this wasn't supposed to happen. They were supposed to stand their ground. They were supposed to fight. They were supposed to protect. They were _not_ supposed to vanish and reappear in another world and _then_ hope that the problem would resolve itself without them!  
  
_And yet it did._  
  
Fubuki kept staring at her half-size curry plate. It was fine for her, at least for now. She didn't need a lot of food; even less when she wasn't out on a mission. Not that there would be _any_ mission for a while: no sea equals no expeditions, no Abyssals equals no combat.  
  
It was less fine for Akagi.  
  
She turned to her left and tried not to sigh. A week ago the mere image Akagi eating off a normal-sized plate was far, far from her thought. Today she saw the carrier glumly digging into a ration a twentieth her normal, and her normal easy-going smile had all but vanished.  
  
“Um... Akagi- _senpai_ ,” she said. “I... uh... you could take my share-”  
  
Akagi waved her hand furiously. “No, no, no, I can't do that!” she said, and smiled. “I'm fine, really!” Except her smile was _ugly_ : Hungry Akagi was, in Fubuki's eyes, well and truly heartbreaking.  
  
The door poened with an angry slide behind Fubuki. She turned around: at the threshold stood a frazzled-looking Hiei, hands held limp at her side. “Oh, Hiei- _san_?”  
  
The battleship nodded, and marched over to Fubuki's table in irregular steps. She plopped herself down with a thud on the mattress next to Fubuki and propped her chin with both palms.  
  
(Fubuki glanced sideways: within the span of her taking her eyes off Akagi and back, her plate had gone completely empty. Like _polished clean_ empty.)  
  
“Hiei _-san_ , how's the shift-”  
  
Hiei threw her arm in the air. “Boring, boring and boring.”  
  
“And Kongou- _san_ -”  
  
There was an exasperated groan from the base of her throat. “ _Onee-sama_? Not gonna be back for another hour or two.” Her smile was oddly bitter. “She's been having too much fun blasting those stinky giants into the ground.”  
  
Without anywhere to sortie the Kongou sisters had been made into watchtowers of a sort, and Kongou was the lucky one. She at least still got to yell BUUURNING LOOOVE while obliterating the hostile local fauna at night. Hiei had been... less fortunate. Her lookout post faced a stretch of barren land without much of wildlife whatsoever.  
  
Just then Mamiya passed by, and placed a half-size curry plate in front of her. Hiei groaned. “I want a super-size parfait, darn it.”  
  
“Sorry,” said Mamiya sullenly. “We're all out...”  
  
Hiei's chin sank from her palm and hit the table next to the plate with a small _thud_.  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” she said. “Entirely new world, everything running out, no friendlies, nowhere to get resupplied... Can't believe I'm saying this, but right now I'd rather just go and fight a dozen Wo-class on my own...”  
  
“I... I don't think that's such a fair thing to say, Hiei- _san_.”  
  
“Well, what do we know?” Her tone was flat. Unamused. “We can't help it being stuck in this place, wherever it is.” She turned to the side. “Hey, Akagi, anything to add?”  
  
No reaction. She poked Akagi in the cheek. No reaction. She gathered some stray strands of Akagi's hair between her fingers and gave them a soft tug. No reaction.  
  
She grabbed Akagi's left shoulder and began shaking her. “Akagi? Got to be _kidding_ me, A-ka-gi!” No reaction. “Bau-xite-Queen!” No reaction either.  
  
“Ehehe,” She scratched her head. “Seems like Akagi- _senpai_ is conserving energy...”  
  
Akagi began blinking. Very slowly. “I heard that.” Her voice lacked any humor whatsoever. “The first time.” The moment her eyes met Hiei's, Fubuki could swear the battle ship _jerked_ backwards.  
  
“K-killing intent,” murmured Hiei. “Scary...”  
  
Fubuki shuddered, too, and began quietly shoveling food into her mouth.  
  
Now a very large group had gathered at the largest table in the cafe, sitting around and yawning – for the most part. There were Sendai and Jintsuu, the former sleepily flipping cards, the latter just yawning. There were Kaga and Zuikaku, staring at their respective teacup. There were Atago and Tone, idly flicking their hair. Yuudachi was resting her chin against the table. The Sixth Destroyer Division (and Shimakaze) were hovering about the table's perimeter. And of course there was Mamiya herself.  
  
“Man, this is frustrating,” said Tenryuu. “Can't we go out there and shank some sunuva-”  
  
Ashigara knuckled her in the head. “Language,” she said.  
  
“Yeah, sure, sure.” Tenryuu sighed. “Sure makes me wish I could just cut all this supply problem open.”  
  
“Well, I suppose it's not all hopeless,” said Mamiya. “The civilian and staff quarters are doing... alright, I heard. The garrison's organized several hunting parties and the prospects aren't that bad on that side. The supply chain's just going to need some time to readjust itself." She performed some rapid wrapping-up-presents hand gestures. “And then there's been talk of converting some of the Naval district's industrial capacity into... well, industrial capacity. You know, to make things and see if we can trade for supplies from the local.”  
  
Yuudachi pressed her cheek against the table. “You sure it isn't Akashi or Yuubari talking, _poi_?” She shuddered.  
  
“No, no, no,” said Mamiya. “I heard from _Kongou-san,_ to the same tune, too!”  
  
“That's even worse!” cried Sendai.  
  
“She sounded serious. I heard her!” said Zuikaku. “You know the Admiral is paying a visit to those _very nice people_ who returned the Sixth Destroyer Squadron, right? Who's betting he's setting up some sort of a trade?”  
  
“I don't like the idea,” said Kaga. “We have nothing to offer but our swords. I am not keen on the prospect.”  
  
“Hey, hey, hey, can it with the defeatism!” Zuikaku's fist hit the table. “We will work something out, right?”  
  
“Fifth Carrier Division.” Kaga wasn't even looking at Zuikaku. “It's not defeatism. It's being realistic.” Her eyes turned icy cold. “We are fleetgirls. We exist to fight and nothing but. Anything else is simply wishful thinking. I... refuse to put my bow on sale.”  
  
Fubuki could swore she saw Zuikaku's vein go _pop_. “Well, guess what, First Carrier Division, even if it comes to _that_ we'd have to _survive_ , don't we?” she said. “Not to mention there's no more Abyssals to fight-”  
  
“There are,” Kaga said. “It's not them who are gone from the fight, it's _us_.” Now her voice was lowered to but an airy whisper. “What does that make us then? Traitors? Deserters? Disgraced, honorless _ronin_?”  
  
Zuikaku obviously wasn't taking it that way. “Well, excuse me, but whose fault is that?” She paused, and then huffed. “Not mine, and not yours either!”  
  
Just then the door slid open.  
  
Dozens of eyes flipped towards the noise, followed by a near-collective _wow_. There at the threshold stood Mutsuki, panting and sweating and so, so happy with herself. A sack almost as long as she was tall was slung across her shoulder.  
  
Fubuki was the first to stand up and run to the doorway. “Mutsuki- _chan_!” she cried “You're late! A-are you alright?”  
  
Mutsuki wiped her brows. “I'm alright!” she exclaimed. “Everyone, look what I brought!”  
  
It had been a long time since Mutsuki was so _happy_. Her grin couldn't have been broader or brighter, she plonked the sack on the ground and said with a sing-song voice. “Supplies!”  
  
At once the cafe sprang to life. First came the destroyers, then the light cruisers. Then came Ashigara and Haguro and Mamiya. Then Yamato stood up. Then Hiei, too, leaving Akagi slumping half-hibernating.  
  
Mutsuki's fingers quickly undid the rope holding the sack together. At once the contents spilled out: loaves of hard-tack and biscuits, rashers of salted meat strung together, wheels of goat cheese, grains packed into bags, and more than a few jars of sour-smelling cabbage pickles. Most were well-preserved for a month-long journey. There were, however, several still-fresh loaves of exquisitely baked pastry; their delightful aroma filling the room.  
  
“A very nice old man gave me!” she exclaimed.  
  
Then with the same happy voice, she told them all the story. She'd run into this old man near a river ford, and had lunch with him. In exchange, he'd told her a wealth of _really amazing_ stories, and to cap it off, had even given her this much supplies when she'd just blurted she had friends who were hungry. Her tale was outlandish, sure. Didn't stop it from infecting the whole room with a fresh breath of optimism.  
  
Correction: The whole room, minus Kaga.  
  
The carrier quietly stood up, walked towards the destroyer, placed her hand on her shoulder, and _squeezed_. “I would be very careful with whom you speak to, Mutsuki,” she said. “No offense.”  
  
Mutsuki blinked rapidly. “Uueh? But...”  
  
Kaga threw a hard, hard look at the pile of supplies spilling on the _tatami_. “Let me be frank,” she said. “What are the odds this old man, _conveniently appearing out of nowhere_ , was trying to take advantage of you? What are the odds he was after our sensitive information? And-” Her voice was low, low, _low_. “What are the odds this old man had slipped _something_ into whatever he gave you?”  
  
Mutsuki shuddered. “Uh...” She couldn't answer, and started to shiver harder with every passing second. “I... I...”  
  
“I thought so,” Kaga's voice was terribly, terribly chilling. “How could you have been so _careless_?”  
  
The happy noises from the crowd faded. In their place came quiet mutters. Fubuki could feel the atmosphere creeping with tension with each passing word.  
  
“U-um, Kaga- _san_?” interjected Haguro. “I... I don't think it's as serious as you think... is it?”  
  
“I'd be glad if that is indeed the case,” Kaga said. “Except we aren't always welcome everywhere. Remind yourself we're in _potentially hostile_ territory. The locals are just as likely to want us dead as they are willing to lend a helping hand.” She narrowed her eyes and turned away. “Don't be so trusting of strangers on the road, is all I'm trying to say.”  
  
Because fighting Abyssals while backed by the full industrial and economic might of the civilized nations was one thing. Fighting an entire world of possibly very hostile people without any logistics support whatsoever was another, far nastier thing.  
  
Now Inazuma was inching closer towards the pile – particularly at one of the baked loaves rolling out of their bags. “But it smells really good, _nanodesu_.”  
  
Akatsuki swatted her on the back. “It isn't lady-like to ogle at food!”  
  
Tenryuu looked disturbingly enthusiastic – perhaps the only one to be so. She patted Inazuma on the head, and stepped forward with her blade bare.  
  
“Well, only one way to find out, isn't it?” she said. She picked up one of the loaves and sliced it into halves. Then quarters. Then eighths. The creamy filling spilled messily on the table; the smell of cream and berries was almost irresistible.  
  
Ashigara's lips curled. “If it _is_ poisoned you wouldn't know poking it, you know,” she said.  
  
Yuudachi's face fell. “And it's a waste if it's good food, _poi_ ~”  
  
“Well, Kaga's right,” said Mamiya. “Who knows... I sure don't like to think the locals would hate us that much to slip poison into our food, but...”  
  
And then Akagi stood up.  
  
The whole room went quiet. There were several mutters and whispers that sounded suspiciously like “whoops” and “oopsie” from the destroyers.  
  
But something wasn't right. Akagi wasn't even _looking_ at the terribly alluring cake spilling cream all over the table.  
  
“I say we put all of this away,” she said. “Mamiya- _san,_ if you've got any food-testing apparatus, please use it. I'll inform the Admiral and Nagato _-san_ as soon as they return. No one takes a bite until we've verified it is safe.”  
  
The silence was such that Fubuki could hear a pin drop. It was a solid while before Mamiya actually responded. “W-will do, Akagi- _san_!” she said. “Could anyone give me a hand?”  
  
Akagi nodded. “Good.” There was a ghost of a smile on her lips – before she equally suddenly turned towards Mutsuki. “Oh, and Mutsuki- _chan_?”  
  
The poor destroyer trembled. “Y-yes?”  
  
And then Akagi swept Mutsuki into a tight, tight embrace. “ _It's all right,_ ” she whispered. “Just... take care and be careful next time, okay?”  
  
Her timing couldn't have been more perfect. Mutsuki's eyes were getting misty.  
  
Meanwhile, Hiei's face was twitching. “... Who are you, and what have you done to Akagi?” she said incredulously.  
  
Kaga said nothing. She only looked at Akagi. It could be Fubuki's searchlights deceiving her, but the other carrier of the 1st Carrier Division was smiling, too, for a passing second.  
  
Fubuki wasn't so surprised.  
  
_Because Akagi-senpai is so cool, isn't she?_

 

***


	5. Part the Fifth

 

**PART THE FIFTH  
IN WHICH A VERY HEAVY OBJECT FELL ON NAGATO'S HEAD**

  
  
  
The atmosphere in the Admiral's office was tense.  
  
To be fair, it had always been tense since two weeks ago. The general staff meeting had been tense; the logistics staff meeting had been tense; the MP staff meeting had been tense; even the briefing with those officials in charge of base personnel quarters had been tense. Nagato had sat through them all over the last three hours, and when the time came for the rest of the _battleships_ to be briefed bridge-fairies were screaming for rest. A tiny, bubbling part inside of her was wishing for a plushie to squeeze and call it a day.  
  
This briefing, however, was far less tense than she thought it could have been. Mutsu was smiling a little, and Kongou even managed a mild chuckle or two (when the Admiral mentioned how _far_ the elves' collective figurative jaw dropped at the sight of the Nagato sisters' broadside).  
  
The Admiral put down his notebook, and glanced across the room. “It was a successful first contact, all told.” he said. “Unless there's anything Nagato or Mutsu would like to add, that about wraps up the briefing. Nagato?”  
  
“Yes, sir,” she said. “My observation was, if this Elrond is the only organized power in this region, then we might be able to operate more or less uncontested,” said Nagato. “Even when operating on land, we have complete and overwhelming advantage in firepower, and aerial superiority is a given, and...”  
  
At this she looked up and found herself at once being stared at by the rest of the naval district's battleships. She didn't blush, no, but startled? Definitely.  
  
“Did I say something... wrong?”  
  
Kongou stared at her. “Wrong? _Wrong_?” Her tone was a mix of joviality and... chastisement? “Come now, Nagato, just listen to yourself; you're sounding as if we're about to fight those local people any day now!”  
  
“Which is exactly not what we want,” said the Admiral. “Hostility against these _elves_ should be far from our thought, at least at present.”  
  
Nagato hid her fluster under a harrumph. “I don't _mean_ anything, Admiral,” she said. “I am merely stating facts as they are, sir.”  
  
“Facts? I don't think so,” said the Admiral. “We haven't seen all that the _elves_ can do. There's no real intelligence except for what we saw ourselves. We didn't see the full extent of their military. Their logistics. Their support units. To say nothing about... _other powers_.”  
  
_Other powers_.  
  
The Admiral had been using that word like a code since they set out a few days back. The word was _magic_ , and tacitly the three of them – the Admiral, Nagato and Mutsu – agreed not to call it by name. Partly because there was no clear explanation as to what and how those... things worked, and partly so as not to frighten the base personnel who were _already_ on edge from how freakish everything about them had been. Indeed there were things unnatural about these _elves_ , and it wasn't just their great height or their leaf-shaped ears or their preservation of a haven so flawlessly beauteous as if sculpted from living stone and wood.  
  
Then again, if they were talking _natural_ , then even them – the fleetgirls formerly of the Imperial Japanese Navy – was also unnatural. Perhaps that was why Nagato of all people – ruthlessly rational as she normally prided herself in – felt simultaneously so relaxed and ill at ease within the walls of that manor-house called Rivendell. Because she could feel whatever was there, in the air, in the water, in the ground they tread, in the woods of the chairs on which they sat... It was there, though she knew not what it was made of or how it worked; yet it felt warm and benevolent and welcoming, and for that exact reason it made her anxious.  
  
Nagato wasn't one to feel at ease with things she did not understand. Perhaps that was why, deep inside, she'd so unconsciously jumped to a violent solution. Or perhaps, instead, it was her history haunting her again. She'd been with the Imperial Japanese Navy for way too long, and served the fanaticism of their top brass too fervently, that her mind, such as it was, would jump so quickly to violence and how to apply it most efficiently against the _gaijin_ who would threaten Emperor, Country and the Japanese Way.  
  
“Pardon me,” she said. “If they should decide to attack us-”  
  
“It is a possibility,” said the Admiral. “But a very small one, I daresay, given how he has treated us so far. He actually invited us into his base – and before that he didn't cause the Sixth Destroyer Division any trouble when he found them.”  
  
“Perhaps he just doesn't know what they are,” said Nagato. “You heard him, sir. They thought the Sixth Destroyer Division were children.”  
  
“Which they _are_ , Nagato- _san_ , from a certain point of view,” said Kirishima. “Before you met him, this Elrond Half-elven didn't know what we are. He probably thought we were a group of refugees – which, again, we kind of _are_ from a certain point of view. In his eyes the Sixth Destroyer Division could have been anything, from a group of stray children to the daughters of someone influential among us.” She straightened the hem of her skirt, and then looked up. “If he truly had ill intention he would have taken them hostage the moment they showed up at his doorsteps.”  
  
“I'd like to see him _try_ ,” said Hiei with sparks in her voice.  
  
Kirishima's palm hit her sister's forehead with a _thud_. “ _Onee_ - _san_ , the point is that he had made no attempt while he could have,” she said. “We don't want _this_ war, and we can avoid it. _That's_ the point.”  
  
The Admiral nodded fondly. “Besides, there's already been enough tragedy in our own world from the hubris of more advanced people seeking dominion over what they thought _lesser_.” Here his voice hummed low. “You'll pardon me for my hopeless idealism, I hope, Nagato. I was a child of the seventies and proudly so.”  
  
“But more importantly...”  
  
His voice trailed off. He looked at Nagato.  
  
“There's still no news on Case Omega yet?”  
  
Nagato frowned. _Case Omega_. It was an ad-hoc name for their disappearance from Earth and reappearance in this brave new frontier, made less with secrecy or confidentiality in mind and more for the sake of brevity and convenience. Because “ _That thing where the entire base vanished from Japan and appear in this world whose name we don't even know_ ” was a mouthful and would make them sound like an idiot.  
  
“No, sir,” said Nagato. “Akashi is still... looking, but.”  
  
“You don't believe she would succeed?”  
  
“No, sir,” said Nagato.  
  
Kongou fidgeted with her sleeve. “That's... unnecessarily harsh.”  
  
And what could Nagato say about that? It was not an indictment or criticism – how could it have been? Because whatever caused _this_ sort of thing to happen was probably centuries, if not millennia, beyond their understanding of the universe and how it worked. Akashi was just a repair ship, a mechanic, not a quantum physicist. At any rate she lacked the bald head, the funny moustache and the labcoat for that purpose.  
  
“I wouldn't think so,” said the Admiral. “After all, I think the same.”  
  
Kongou looked like she didn't know if she should pout or be dismayed. “AD-MI-RAL!” she shouted... and got waved down.  
  
“Whether or not you like it, we're here for the long haul. That means we will have to adapt,” he said. “We must survive. We must even live with the possibility that we'll never see our own world again.” His fingers steepled. “And I was wondering, if that is to be the case, if we'll never see home again, what then?”  
  
The problem with fleetgirls like them, Nagato had always thought (when her bridge wasn't addled by one kind of cute things or another), was that weapons of war given life was a very poor alternate for thinking, adapting human beings when finesse and flexibility was required. Interaction. Discussion. Debate. Diplomacy. Very-long-term planning. They were sadly... disadvantaged in all of those regards. Not because they couldn't, but because that wasn't the purpose of their existence. And like with all other mental faculties, disuse would lead to atrophy.  
  
Now the Admiral had stood up. He surveyed the battleships, from brow to chin, from Kirishima at one end of the room, to Mutsu at the other.  
  
“What then?” he asked again, and his voice cracked a little. “What shall you do if we're stuck here for good? What _would_ you like to do if that comes to pass?”  
  
“Admiral, sir,” Nagato said. “I... don't think that's a very appropriate question. Not at this time.”  
  
It was a demoralizing question. For all intents and purposes they were still at war. Demoralization in earlier days had used to be punishable by death – or failing that, harsh words, corporal punishment and the brig. Time had moved on; Nagato's mindset hadn't so much.  
  
The Admiral said, “I know, hard question to ask.” He rubbed his forehead. “Let me ask you something a bit less controversial. Assume we had got our way. Assume we'd won the war. Assume we'd eliminated every single Abyssal Princess and vessel and crafts – and I know it's a very cruel assumption to make-”  
  
Kirishima blinked. “Are you asking what would become of us, sir?” Her voice was a little shaky, and Nagato could hear her boilers sputter too.  
  
Because 'what next' was as big an unknown to Nagato as it was to every other fleet girl. If they had won, if they had purged every Abyssal from existence, yes, that's one hundred and eight kinds of amazing, but what next? Would they vanish? Would they be scuttled? Would they scuttle themselves? Would they be stowed away – whatever that entailed – until the next conflict inevitably rolled around? None of the possibility were especially appealing; perhaps that was why Nagato had never remotely entertained the thought. Altogether a thoroughly unpleasant and demoralizing question in an already demoralizing situation.  
  
“Admiral, sir,” she began. “I _still_ don't think-”  
  
But the Admiral only shook his head.  
  
“I haven't finished,” he said. “ _Assume_ also, that you do not spontaneously scuttle yourselves or vanish from existence by a divine or arcane act of one sort or another at the moment of triumph. What would you do then?” He threw a very quick glance at a twitching Kongou and preemptively narrowed his eyes. “And no, Kongou, my dear, ' _marrying me_ ' is _not_ an acceptable answer.”  
  
“There would be nothing for us to do,” Nagato said bluntly. “And-”  
  
The Admiral raised his hand – signalling Nagato to stop right there. “Indeed,” he said instead. “We would be soldiers without a war. What shall we do then? One of the things we can do is make a new war and hope for the best. Such as now: I could wield you like a club and start grabbing as much land and resources in this new world in the name of His Majesty the Emperor, or the National Diet, or the JSDF – or my own name. Without the higher command structure to give me strategic orders, there's no real difference either way.” His voice was darkly humorless. “And you shall follow my order, because you're soldiers and that's what soldiers do.”  
  
The harshness of his tone was only matched by how harsh reality was. Such that even Kongou was taken aback. Her lips moved, but no words came out.  
  
“Admiral, sir-” interjected Nagato. That was uncalled for of her, sure, but this attitude...  
  
But the Admiral stayed absolutely still. His face relaxed.  
  
“Or we could go agriculture,” he said. “Grow. Make. Trade. Drop the military uniform and start wearing whatever cloth that suits you. I could put all the power and authority vested by His Majesty and our citizens in me, to protect you and preserve you, and make it so that every single one of you fleetgirls would get to live that civilian life that you were born to protect, yet never got to experience.” Now his eyes suddenly became more animate. “If I asked you, which option would you like better, what would you say?”  
  
Silence. Because there was no answer. Because there was no way Nagato could answer that.  
  
Then the Admiral went on, “Here's some food for thought: what would you do if tomorrow you're discharged, free to go on with your life however you see fit?”  
  
More silence reigned while the Admiral leaned back against his chair. The wrinkles on his forehead seemed to deepen.  
  
“Well, go ahead,” he said again. “I give permission to speak freely.”  
  
Unbelievably, it was Mutsu of all people to start first.  
  
“I could go into psychology. Help people who are in emotional distress,” she said, and her face at once turned a bit glum. “Who knows... I just thought it would save so many lives if-” Her voice trailed off. She needed not say more. Nagato knew.  
  
Kirishima fidgeted in her place. “Umm... I could run maybe a bookstore,” she said. “Or maybe an electrical appliance store, or-.”  
  
“I could learn how to cook for _onee-san_!” exclaimed Hiei – her enthusiasm spontaneously cause everyone to go a shade paler.  
  
“I'd travel the world and try every single kind of tea there is to try!” exclaimed Kongou. “Oh, and drag Admiral with me, too!” At that the Admiral only frowned.  
  
Haruna seemed to be mulling over her choices for a long, long while before she finally said, “Haruna could join Mamiya and run a cafe too!”  
  
“I have no preference one way or another,” said Nagato at last. “Whatever your choice, Admiral, I am your ship.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “Though... becoming a kindergarten teacher wouldn't be half bad...”  
  
At once she threw a death gaze out in all directions. The threat was implicit, but apparent: _Anyone to speak a single word about what they had just heard would have to answer to her 41-cm guns_.  
  
The Admiral, like he always did, waved her implied threat and furious blush away.  
  
“Excellent, most excellent,” he said. “I know the circumstances are anything but desirable, but you could hardly be blamed. You've been most excellent soldiers for all these years. I think neither our country nor any god nor any spirit could fault you for looking after your own life, now that you won't need to fight any more.”  
  
He paused – for emphasis. He liked to do that a lot.  
  
“So I say, let's do it. Let's make for ourselves a place where you can settle down and be whatever you want to be. I don't think there's so little space in this world that a hundred bright and brilliant and wonderful fleetgirls can't find your place to stay and be happy if you so choose. Let's make it our goal, and work towards it. What do you say?”  
  
“I'd like nothing more,” said Mutsu.  
  
“Can't say no to TEA TIME FOR ALL!” shouted Kongou. “Right, right, Admiral?”  
  
“Yeah, sure, why not?” said Hiei. “Sounds interesting to me!”  
  
Haruna smiled. “It... doesn't sound bad to Haruna,” she said. “Haruna will be alright.”  
  
“It's the most logical course of action, isn't it, sir?” said Kirishima.  
  
Nagato only bowed. “Sir.” she said. That was her way of saying 'yes' to a matter she wasn't sure if it was a good idea or not.  
  
“Good,” he said. “Now that we've got the hardest part down, let's get to current business, one thing at a time.”  
  
His fingers flipped the first few pages of a report Nagato had put there an hour ago.  
  
“About that _interesting_ incident involving one torpedo destroyer,” he said, “and some windfall gain of supplies two days ago.”  
  
Nagato steeled herself. “It's Mutsuki, sir, name ship of the Mutsuki-class,” she said.  
  
The Admiral adjusted his glasses. “I see. Isn't she the one whose sister ship...”  
  
“W-island campaign, sir, and... again in Solomon. She's never been the same again.” It was an unnecessary reminder. The Admiral never spoke as much and not to Nagato, but they both tacitly understood: the responsibility for Kisaragi was for the most part _theirs._ “Her lapse of judgement could have led to disaster; I would see that she's properly disciplined-”  
  
“Don't,” said the Admiral. “She could hardly be blamed. If anything it's my fault; we should have established a guideline on how to engage with the locals in this world before we sent them out scouting. Besides, she'd inadvertently got us some interesting information on the side.”  
  
“What kind of information, sir?”  
  
“Didn't you see the pastry down the kitchen, Nagato?” he said. “It was the same as the cakes Elrond served us at the table. Given that, without evidence to the contrary yet we can presume the old man were on his side, his payroll, or both. Either way I don't think he'd just give Mutsuki that much food for no reason.”  
  
“I see,” said Kirishima, and Nagato could almost hear so many intelligence fairies inside the fast battleship's bridge revving up. “Do you think they might secretly be trying to help us, sir?”  
  
“Whatever the reason might be, that seems to be the case,” said the Admiral. “If so, these _elves_ might be our best allies in the days to come, particularly as they aren't ask for much in return. Yet.”  
  
“So it's decided, right, Admiral, sir?” exclaimed Hiei. “We'll start-” she coughed and blushed, as thought the word was taboo and vile. “-trading with them?”  
  
“The correct term, I believe, is _engagement_ ,” corrected the Admiral. “Speaking of that, I'm afraid now I shall have to make a decision that... would shake things up more than a little.”  
  
At once the room felt like it had frozen over – only to be thawed by his next words.  
  
“Battleship Nagato,” said the Admiral. “You are hereby dismissed from your post as my Secretary Ship. Kirishima shall take over all of your responsibilities, effective immediately.”  
  
The first thing to spring to Nagato's thought was ' _What?'_ followed by ' _Why?'_ and then ' _What have I done wrong?'_  
  
Resentment, however, passed by her like but a breeze. Obey orders; this was her purpose. This was what she was born for. That they might be retooling themselves for civilian purposes did not make Nagato's _purpose_ any less true.  
  
“I... I understand, sir. I apologize for my incompetence,” she said with a deep bow. “I shall stand down immediately.”  
  
Her appointed successor was less accepting of the situation. “But... but why, sir?” cried Kirishima. “I mean no offense, of course, but... what _exactly_ has Nagato- _san_ done wrong?”  
  
For a moment the Admiral only smiled while the entire fleet of battleship was staring at him. At long last he sat down, and clasped his hands on the table.  
  
“Don't get me wrong; this is not a demotion for Nagato,” he said. “She has served this naval district splendidly both as a battleship and a Secretary Ship, and I'll personally fight any personnel or ship who says otherwise.” Now his face relaxed, and his smile became _warm_. “I've got greater work for you. From today, you shall be our naval district's representative among the elves of Rivendell.”  
  
Nagato blinked. _What?_ And blinked some more. _Why?_ And blinked some more. _How?_  
  
“B-but, sir..” she began.  
  
The Admiral waved his hand. “You have full authority to speak, to flatter, to threaten, to negotiate and to make deals as you see fit,” he said, half ceremoniously and half cheerfully. “In the records, you're the flagship of the Rivendell Transport Logistics Fleet, effective immediately – you're given full authority to pick your escort convoy for the route between the district and the elves and any expedition concerning it.”  
  
“I... I understood, sir,” she said, her steeled voice drowning out the cacophony of questions running rampant across her bridge. When in doubt, military professionalism trumped all else. “When am I to depart to Rivendell, sir?”  
  
“First thing tomorrow morning,” said the Admiral. “Now I suggest you head down to the Destroyer and Cruiser dormitories – and perhaps the Submarine pen if you like, and choose your convoy.” Then he smiled – warmly, encouragingly. “We'll do well to depend on you in the days to come, Envoy Ship Nagato.”  
  
It was not until Mutsu threw her arms around her shoulder with a chirpy “Congratulation, _onee-san_!” that Nagato snapped out of her trance.  
  
Envoy Ship? Now that was a new one.  
  
Though Nagato did not necessarily dislike the sound of that.


	6. Part the Sixth

**PART THE SIXTH**  
  
**IN WHICH ASASHIO COMMITTED BRUTAL MURDER, THEN HEARD TALES OF KINGS**

  
  
  
For Halbarad, the Trollshaws was a place full of sorrow.  
  
The old ruins of Rhudaur remained here, atop grey hills, casting their dreary shadows upon the beeches beneath. There were trolls here, quite numerous and terrible, and once in a while would venture further South where there were still villages and hamlets. The spirits, such as they were, of Rhudaur and of Arnor before them, the noble and the evil alike, remained there in the muddy ground, beneath the dark canopies, under the dank dungeons of those castles and towers now ruined and broken.  
  
Here he had buried a Chieftain, and two years later buried yet another.  
  
But today, well, today was not a day for recalling tales of old sorrows and old failures. He was to meet with Mithrandir, and then escort him as far to the North as he could. In the words of the wizard, there were folks there among ships and steel, with whom he had to speak ere he departed for the warm sun of the Shire.  
  
It so happened that he ran into a peculiar sight as he traveled the unmarked routes along the Trollshaws.  
  
She was young, about as young as the four girls who showed up at Elrond's doorsteps carrying young Estel with them, and were dressed in the same style of outlandish short skirt. Her hair, too, was in a strange shade between black and dark blue like deep water.  
  
_Ciryanetti_ Master Elrond had named those girls, those women: ship-daughters, and Halbarad had found the name oddly fitting. These girls, these women, were neither Men nor Elves nor any kindred that had come ere the twilight of the Third Age of the Sun, but rather the spirits of _warships_ – or so Master Elrond had claimed, and who was Halbarad to doubt his wisdom?  
  
At any rate, like those four Ship-daughters before, she was also lost. She was looking around and around, staring at the sky and the canopies above rather than the ground below, like she had never traveled across the wilds before. It was quite possible that as Estel had ran into a group, there would be more around. It would make sense, too, that they should lose their way so easily. Ships were meant to sail the open seas, not to travel through the wildland rocky and muddy.  
  
He debated with himself for some minute, and then decided to intervene. He stepped out from behind a beech tree. “May I be of service?” he said.  
  
Her first reaction, predictably, was to summon tubes of iron in her right hand, and pointed it at his general direction. Startling, yes, but Halbarad had thought she might have so responded. He stopped in his track, and raised his empty hands.  
  
“I wish you no harm,” he said, turning his palms around for her to see.  
  
The Ship-daughter lowered her arm. She looked around, at the clearing about her, at the canopy and the sky above it, and then back at Halbarad, clearly uncomfortable about the whole business.  
  
“I'm not supposed to speak to... um...” She placed her finger on her lip, and then declared aloud, “I'm not supposed to speak to the locals!” She stopped. “What do you want with me?”  
  
“It seems that you need help,” he said.  
  
“The Commander said we must be careful not to accept help from the locals!”  
  
Halbarad nodded. It might seem particularly and patently unhelpful, that Commander of hers. But it wasn't entirely an unreasonable guideline. Those parts that once were fair and civilized were no longer so, and unsavoury folks – or worse – lurked where the Rangers could not find them.  
  
“Very well, I shall not impose if you so wish,” said Halbarad. “But a fair warning: the Trollshaws is not a place to stay for long; not for us who travel the road wishing for the safety of hearth and home. Terrible things dwell here, beneath the leaves and the shadows of those old hills.”  
  
His warning did not come too early. The darkness was falling upon the wood as they spoke; the beeches seemed to grow taller and more menacing. The Ship-daughter seemed to realize this: she stared long at the amber sky, and her shoulders shuddered.  
  
“Oh, no,” she said. Then she stopped for a second and looked around. “Um... How far are we from the river bank, uh-”  
  
“Halbarad, Ranger of the North I am,” answered the Ranger. “And the direction I shall give you: the river bank is not very far from here; about two hours on foot if you knew the right path, and still less than four if you knew the right direction. All the same I advise you against moving so much at night. Wait until dawn! For here dark things dwell, that grow fierce and ravenous without the Sun to stay their evil.”  
  
“But I have promised the Commander to be back before nightfall!” she exclaimed. “I-I must fulfill my mission!”  
  
“If you cannot return on time, then at least seek to return at all!” said Halbarad. He stopped to think for a second, then went on. “The darkness and things that hide in its bosom are well dreaded by good-hearted folks, for they are strong and ruthless where the Sun shines not. Never underestimate the night, not least under the looming shadows of the past!”  
  
“Please show me the way!” she said.  
  
Halbarad sighed, and complied. He produced from his satchel a small map, as was the sort Rangers would keep on their long travels, of the Trollshaw.  
  
His map was not very detailed – all Rangers' maps were not very detailed, for they relied on their keen sense and acumen far more than cartography for direction. At any rate he drew her some notes as to landmarks she could use: a very large boulder here, a very high tree there, a deep trench between this cliff and that cliff... and marked down a long, trailing path that led to the riverside.  
  
“Follow the path and you'd be on the river bank soon enough,” he said. “Still-” He turned his head up towards the sky. The sun had now set, and the new moon rising. “If you so insist on traveling at night, I could accompany you,” he said.  
  
“No thank you, Halbarad-san” she said. “I can do this. I must do this. It's my mission!” She took the annotated map, and drew herself into a deep bow. “Thank you, Halbarad-san!”  
  
And then there was a rumble in the distance. Halbarad felt every muscle on his body tensing.  
  
_Trolls._  
  
Trolls had ever been a danger in the Trollshaws and the Angle beyond, for here in the muddy earth they multiplied and grew strong on the bounties of the woods. Rangers were, as a rule, to avoid trolls unless there were five to every one troll; any less, and they would be slain to a man.  
  
Now the troll was approaching quickly. Its coming was heralded by an overwhelming stench, a loud roar, and many a heavy footstep that rumbled the forest-floor. Into the clearing it emerged, rising from behind the bush, lumpy, crooked and large as a hill. With a roar it shuffled forth, an uprooted beech in hand for a club.  
  
At once Halbarad brandished his bow, nocked an arrow, and drew the string.  
  
But hardly had he loosed his arrows than the Ship-daughter jumped in the troll's way. She flicked her armband towards the creature's direction: the tubes moved on their own, the metal shining beneath the moonlight.  
  
Then the tubes on her arm sparked, and there were the noise of many thunderbolts. A large screen of smoke and dust was thrown into the air, and Halbarad could only draw back and covered his face with his grey cloak.  
  
The troll fell on its knee with a gurgle in its throat. There were many holes in its pudgy torso. Its face hit the ground soaked with black blood, and was no more.  
  
But trouble was not yet over. The corner of Halbarad's eyes caught another shadow, big and black and bearing a club.  
  
“Behind you!” he cried. Trolls were terribly fast as the night grew, and far more cunning than travelers would give them credit. Indeed a second troll, who had yet remained still as a rock and blended into the darkness, now rose like a mound that walked.  
  
On reflex, the Ranger hid - or rather, _repositioned_. He rolled and dashed back, as quickly as he could, and in a burst put fifteen yards between himself and the second troll.  
  
Once there, he loosed an arrow at the towering shape. The arrow found its mark, embedding into the troll's thick hide in the back. The troll did not even flinch - for trolls of his Age feared no arrows save for those loosed by elves, and then only if they hit their eyes.  
  
But it did stop its charge and turn around towards Halbarad, and made like it would change its target. It was all the time the Ship-daughter needed. She spun around, and raised her other arm: her other bracer was full of tubes that resembled very large tablets made of steel. With a small battlecry, she released three of those tubes towards the troll.  
  
The projectiles, such as they were, did not travel far. They went in a sharp downwards curve over twenty feet at most, before hitting the troll in its bulging belly.  
  
There were a series of terrible explosions. There was a choking amount of dust and smoke. The flash was blinding. The pressure, such as it was, sent Halbarad careening back several yards. Scratches, bruises, and a nasty buzzing sound in his ears, was his reward for valor.  
  
The Dunedain were not elves. But this much he could endure.  
  
He managed to stand up - with some difficulties, when all was said and done. there was not much left of the troll – or any at all, but a charred, bloody spot on the forest floor. But the explosions had taken its toll on the Ship-daughter: she was knocked backwards, rolling several yards along the forest floor before skidding to a halt on her knee.  
  
When Halbarad got to her place, the Ship-daughter was covered in dirt and her clothes were in tatters. He took off his cloak and threw it over her shoulder without hesitation.  
  
“Are you hurt?” he asked.  
  
“Nnng...” she said, and wrapped herself inside his cloak. “It could have been... worse. I shouldn't have forgotten oxygen torpedoes don't work so well... on land.”  
  
He looked her over. Indeed she was fine... largely, save for several bruises and scratches on her knees and elbows.  
  
The scouts had spoken true. The Ship-daughters were indeed very mighty, and frighteningly efficient in their ways of war. Yet they emanated no malice – not, at any rate, malice directed at the beautiful things upon the green grass of Middle-earth.  
  
“Stay here,” he offered. “You need to rest for the night.”  
  
“But-”  
  
“I shall build a fire,” he said. “The spawns of the Shadow fear flame and would not so readily challenge us.” He looked at her gravely. “Rest. I'll handle it.”  
  
“No, no, no,” she said, and there was ardent seriousness in her voice. “I can do it, I can help!”  
  
And then she stood up and dusted her torn sleeves and flailed her arm around, as though saying “ _see, I'm fine!_ ”  
  
At which point Halbarad decided it wasn't worth the trouble trying to stop her helping, and instead began working on his task.  
  
For a time, neither of them spoke. Halbarad, out of the simple courtesy oft forgotten by coarser folks of his Age. And the Ship-daughter, probably out of a sense of duty and the weight of the oath she had made. In uncomfortable silence they set about gathering the dried beech-branches that littered the forest-floor, until there was a large enough pile in a large enough clearing to last the night.  
  
The Ship-daughter stared at the fire the moment the first branch came alit. The silence was suffocating and terribly awkward.  
  
So Halbarad spoke first. “Is there something you would like to speak of?” he said straightforwardly.  
  
The Ship-daughter tore her eyes from the flame and began examining the torn hem of her skirt. “I...” she said, “I still think I shouldn't converse with the locals without the Commander's leave!”  
  
Halbarad nodded in approval. Oath-keepers, as a rule, could not be agents of the Shadow – for deceit and treachery was the Shadow's make.  
  
All the same, Halbarad could not help but pry, not least as he was as curious about them – Tactfully and quite craftily, for such was the way of the Dunedain of his Age.  
  
“We could swap tales,” he suggested. “Such is the customs of the road: in these parts those who travel are brothers, if not in blood then in spirit.” He broke another branch in halves, and tossed it into the fire. “A story for a story, an answer for an answer. And perhaps, a riddle for a riddle – as a delightful folk far away to the West should like to conduct themselves.”  
  
The Ship-daughter looked around and chewed lightly on her lip. She trained her eyes on him intently. “But I-”  
  
“Perhaps I shall have the first go,” he said.  
  
So Halbarad began. He told her of his line, his father and grandfather and great-grandfather before him: all had been true Rangers; all had been in steadfast service of the Chieftain who had sworn to protect the gentler folks of the North; all but one had fallen in service of the land they had loved. He told her of the kindness of the High Elves of Rivendell, and the great courteousness with which they had entreated his broken and diminished people.  
  
“Tell me a story you may comfortably tell,” he said. “and I shall match you with another story of my own.”  
  
It took her some coughing and harrumphing, but at long last she began too. She told him her name – Asashio, or _morning tide_ in the tongue of her people. She told him of the place she came from, a 'naval district', where things were lively and robust – full of joy in the best of days yet full of somberly sorrow in the worst. She told him of her many sisters (ten in total), each full of personality and life. And of course, she told him, that she would always, always, _always_ accomplish her mission, no matter what!  
  
At this Halbarad nodded approvingly. “Your 'naval district',” he said, “seems a good place.”  
  
“Of course it is!” she exclaimed so enthusiastically.  
  
“But I must wonder, why would you then come here?” he said. “You had had an open sea – even the Eldar who dwell now in Middle-earth long for the blue waters where they would return one day. Why would you leave that sea and come here, to its brown earth and dark trees?”  
  
The Ship-daughter eyed him warily. “I don't... really know,” she said quickly. “B-besides, that's top secret information!” Then again, perhaps she wasn't lying either. She fell silent, as though afraid she had spoken too much, too out of turn. “Um... your turn, Halbarad-san?”  
  
Then Halbarad decided that was all he could have got from the Ship-daughter, for now. “Quite,” he said, rubbing his hand in front of the fire. “What could I tell you?”  
  
For a moment Asashio sat there, tilting her head thoughtfully.  
  
Then she set her gaze upon a wicked, burnt-out shape atop a hill in the distance, that rose looming above the trees. “Um... what is that tower over there?” she asked.  
  
“That?” Halbarad drew himself up and straightened his posture, because that would be a very long tale to tell. “It has no name, none that had survived the years at any rate. Collectively, too, we Rangers give them no name, for though they were built to noble ends they had long fallen into the dominion of wicked things.”  
  
Now Halbarad saw the Ship-daughter was looking at him, and her eyes blinked no more.  
  
“But if you wanted to know their origin,” he went on. “Long ago – before my grandparents' grandparents were born, this land was under the dominion of the Kingdom of Arnor. The High King, such as he was known, erected many a towers and watches like it, to keep vigil over his domain. Now the Kingdom is no more, and the last true King lie buried under ice in the ocean cold, further still to the North.”  
  
Now Asashio had grown so attentive she'd wrapped herself tight in his cloak and was watching him with bated breaths; and the sight inspired the bard within Halbarad. The Dunedain were a people of stories as they were of swords, and an audience was oft a luxury to his folks who had kept preserved a tradition of many thousand years, passed down from fathers to sons, mothers to daughters.  
  
So he continued telling, from one story to the next, without asking for any in return.  
  
The stories took Halbarad – and the Ship-daughter – away from the gloom of the Trollshaws. It took them to the Misty Mountains, where millennia-old tunnels of Durin's line lay dormant amidst the rock. It took them further East, where the descendants of many of the fine folks of the North ere Arnor fell now lived along the water's edges. It took them North to the Cape of Forochel, where the Lossoth were sure to inhabit to this Age among snow and ice, still living in mortal fear of ships from the West as though monsters.  
  
Long had Halbarad finished the tale of Arvedui, last of the line of Kings in the North. The Ship-daughter was well fast asleep, snugly wrapped in his grey cloak, before Halbarad could have asked for his share of story from her end in return.  
  
He threw another branch into the fire.


	7. Part the Seventh

**PART THE SEVENTH**  
  
**IN WHICH KIRISHIMA DISHED OUT DISCIPLINE, THEN ENGAGED IN A (VERBAL) DUEL**

  
  
  
“Excellent work, Asashio- _chan_ ,” said Kirishima, setting down the clipboard with Asashio's last mission report on it. “Your intel's invaluable, we'd do well to depend on your continued good work.”  
  
The praise was, to be fair, a little too much for what Asashio had managed to accomplish, but Kirishima couldn't help but feel it justified; for one thing, the destroyer always, always, _always_ tried her best; for the other, she was nothing less than _ridiculously adorable_ in the process.  
  
But then all of a sudden Asashio drew back, and she looked smaller and more timid.  
  
“Could I confide something in you, Kirishima- _san_?” she said. “I- I'd be glad if you could keep it off the records!”  
  
Kirishima straightened herself. “Off the record?”  
  
“Um... it's... it's kind of embarrassing...”  
  
Kirishima raised her brows. _Embarrassing?_ _Off the record?_ The two things put together rang so many alarm bells, and her first thought was _what would Nagato say_? Then again, Kirishima wouldn't know. For all her seriousness Nagato had always been quite lenient towards the destroyers, and... well, knowing her weakness for cute things and knowing how lethally adorable destroyers can be at the most inopportune of times, Kirishima could understand.  
  
“I have to hear you out first.” she said, and steepled her fingers in a pensive pose.  
  
For a while Asashio stared at the ground. “You've read my report, Kirishima- _san_ ,” she said at last. “My mission would have been seriously hindered without the help of this man, this... Ranger of the North, he claimed.” She paused, and swallowed hard. “And I...I... um... I nearly killed him.”  
  
_Wait, what?_ “How so?” Kirishima asked.  
  
Now Asashio was well fidgeting in her place. “We were attacked by those gigantic things, like I reported,” she said. “I... I was caught in a blind spot, and I fired my torpedoes without thinking, and-”  
  
Kirishima's face at once change from relaxed, to concerned, to _utterly and absolutely fraught with fright_. “You did _what_?”  
  
“The creature was so close, and I... I fired my torpedoes,” Asashio said. “I forgot I was on land, and...”  
  
Twitch, twitch went Kirishima. “What do you mean, you _forgot_ you were on _land_?” Her own voice sounded like strained steel to her own ears. “At point blank?”  
  
Asashio nodded. “I... I'm sorry!” she cried, and began bowing and bowing and bowing _repeatedly_. “I-it was on reflex, and I thought it would help, and-”  
  
Kirishima sighed. She was no stranger of misuse of military-grade equipment among the fleetgirls; sometimes accidental, sometimes on purpose, sometimes harmless, sometimes _very much not_. It was to be expected, after all: fleetgirls were by nature almost always quirky; giving them a body and opposable thumbs only meant so many more opportunities for mischief. But this? This was way, way, _way_ beyond misuse of equipment.  
  
This was almost unforgivable stupidity! “You did _tone down the output_ , right?” she said. It was hard to try suppressing her desire to yell _what were you thinking_ , and it was only thanks to her acquaintance with with her sisters' antics all the time that she didn't raise her voice any more than necessary.  
  
Asashio nodded guiltily.  
  
Kirishima rubbed her temples. “It could have been worse,” she said. “Never mind the guy, _you_ could have been sunk on the spot by your own munitions!” Rhetorical question, rhetorical answer. Never mind a human being. Never mind a destroyer. Three full-powered Type-93s at that range, _on land_ , meant even _Yamato_ wouldn't walk away in one piece.  
  
For a moment Asashio was quiet and stared at the ground. Until, suddenly something came into her head, and her voice raised an octave. “I... Oh no, last night I was too occupied, I forgot to apologize! He was hurt too, and it was my fault-”  
  
Kirishima reclined back against her chair, and sighed. “Well, if he's with those people from Rivendell then it might be only a matter of time since you meet again.” Now sternness bled into her voice. “Anyway, Asashio-chan, this carelessness... should be properly disciplined.”  
  
“I-I understand, Kirishima-san!” And the rapid-fire bowing resumed. “I'll accept any punishment, and-”  
  
“Good,” said Kirishima. “I want you to write _I shall not launch torpedoes on land_ five thousand times, and submit it to the MP for review within the week.”  
  
Asashio was nodding furiously when the door to Kirishima's office swung open. Behind it stood Ooyodo.  
  
“Someone wants to speak to the Admiral, Kirishima-san!” she said. “An old man with long beard and pointy hat! The MP is keeping him at the gate, he said he has something urgent to confer!”  
  
“That's okay, I'll speak to him.” Then she turned to the destroyer. “Just go back and rest for now, Asashio- _chan_. You've earnt it.” She patted Asashio on the shoulder – the last pat segueing into a _very_ strong squeeze. “And don't forget, _five thousand times_.”  
  
_Ain't no rest for the newly-minted secretary ship._

***

  
The civilian waiting room at the entrance to the naval district was very plain, and still decorated – perhaps for the sake of nostalgia – in the old _Showa_ style of décor: A lot of wood, a lot of traditional paintings, a lot of flowers. The only modern thing was a set of green sofa set next to a Western-style table.  
  
At the sofa sat the man Mitsuki had described in her report: pointy hat, grey robes, very very long beard, a weathered walking-stick, and a face both kind and inscrutable in equal measures. He was so stereotypically _wizardly_ , thought Kirishima, that taking him seriously took a lot of effort at first. At the doorway stood Sendai and Jintsuu, who'd taken him in from the guard-post at the base entrance, waiting curiously and quite mischievously too.  
  
“I'm the Secretary Ship Kirishima,” she said. She bit her lip, and then went on. “Pleasure to meet you.”  
  
“And, like I am wont to introduce, I am Gandalf,” he said. “And Gandalf means me.”  
  
“I heard you wanted to speak to the Admiral?”  
  
“That I do, my dear Miss,” said the wizard.  
  
The door swung open, and one of the base staff shuffled into the room bearing a tray with two teacups full of... warm water.  
  
“Well... I would bring you tea,” Kirishima said abashedly, “but we're all out of tea.” _Among other things._  
  
The wizard clasped his hand, “So it seems,” he said. “I only ask that you let me smoke – and not begrudge an old man of his smoke-rings.”  
  
Then he produced from his person a long, curved smoking-pipe as long as her arm. She couldn't say no, though she was wishing Japan had been more heavy-handed in its smoking ban.  
  
“Of your plight I could only guess from what little you have told us of yourself. Truly, you run a tight ship; lesser armies had fallen apart for less.” Whether he was aware of the pun, Kirishima had no way to know.  
  
“Were you by any chance the same 'old man' that gave the destroyer Mutsuki a sack of provision?” she asked.  
  
“Indeed, that would be me,” said Gandalf. “Though I knew not at the time that she is a Ship-daughter; she seemed quite distressed and in need of kindness on the road, so that I granted her: compassion.”  
  
“We are grateful,” said Kirishima sternly. “But you must understand, we have rules to observe. Nobody had touched the provisions, and nobody will until we can verify it is safe for consumption. I hope you would not be offended.”  
  
Gandalf smiled. “Oh, I would guarantee with my life the food is perfectly safe, my dear Miss,” he said. “In fact the only thing unwholesome in my sack is the sack itself; I got it off a duo of dwarves who may or may not have used it for storing iron-ore and other bounties of the earth.” He laughed mirthfully. “I hope the poor young Miss was not punished?”  
  
Kirishima shook her head gently. “She was given a... reminder,” she said. “It is as you said, we... try to run a tight ship when we can. That means some measures of discipline.”  
  
“Well, then, my apologies go out to her,” said the wizard. “All the same, I do suppose she has informed your Admiral of the business I asked of her?”  
  
“Yes, she has,” she said. “The Admiral was looking forward to speaking to you personally for that specific matter – but you've arrived at an inopportune time. He is indisposed.”  
  
“I beg to differ, my dear Miss,” said the wizard. “A wizard is never late, nor is he early. He arrives exactly when he is meant to.” He waited, perhaps for the cryptic statement to sink. Then he set his staff against the chair, and looked about the room. “It's quite a lively citadel you've got here, isn't it?”  
  
“For the most part, yes,” she said. _If only you knew_ , she thought. _It was even livelier in the past._ “But back to business; I represent the Admiral in all matters of business around the base and report directly to him. If there's anything you'd like to speak to him about, you can tell me instead.”  
  
Her voice was nowhere near as authoritative as Nagato's. But there was a first for everything.  
  
Now the wizard studied her: his gaze was piercing and unrelenting and stern, as though sizing her up. A flush came to Kirishima's cheeks: perhaps it wasn't the wizard's intention, but right there, right then, she thought what patchwork authority she'd just been freshly given was being _challenged_.  
  
“Anything that goes to the Admiral goes through me first,” she said, steeling her voice. “As I said, I _am_ the Secretary Ship.”  
  
“O very well,” he said finally. “The truth is, my dear Miss Kirishima, I am looking for someone to share in an adventure that I am planning. It has been right difficult to find someone who is up for the task. I have had half a mind to call on a small favour with an old friend who lives a fair distance from here, for this business would be very profitable for him and quite amusing for me.” “But then I decided, perhaps you, and all or part of your merry company, would like a part to play in it also.”  
  
“I see.” she said. “You're saying, you want to give us a chance?”  
  
“A chance!” cried the wizard. “I daresay it's an important enough business that calling it _a chance_ would be a gross understatement. I would want this quest to succeed, not least because there were many lives at stake – important ones at that.” Now he lowered his voice and smiled amicably. “All the same I would want to be your friend or at least someone you can trust, and it goes both ways – it would benefit me very greatly and you also if I could trust you as much. And so I thought perhaps you should hear about this business, this adventure, in advance.”  
  
Kirishima bit hard on her lip. It was high time to doff her idealistic soldier cap and put on the shrewd negotiator cap. It was hard to believe she, the bookish Kirishima, had to learn how to _bargain_.  
  
“What would we gain from the business?” she said.  
  
“The business would be amusing for me still, of course; and for you it might be even vital,” said the wizard. “I may be a wanderer, but as the old saying of Man goes not all who wanders are lost. I have quite a few friends and a few more who owe me one sort of favour or another. More than a few of them might be interested in a fair trade or two; depending on what you want, I could certainly introduce to you the right sort.”  
  
“Truly?” said Kirishima. “If I am to say, hypothetically, that we need steel and a lot of it-”  
  
The wizard nodded slowly. “Then you should look no further than the dwarves,” he said.  
  
He stood up, and produced from his person a very large map, which he set on the table and slowly unfolded it. It was a map of this part of the world, Kirishima could recognize – it resembled very much the contours drawn by the Second Carrier Division's scout planes – except understandably far more detailed and annotated.  
  
Now the wizard lifted his thin, wiry finger, and traced a line from the big X that indicated the naval district, a a mountain range far to the Western edge of the map, and then again to another to the Northern end.  
  
“It is a fair distance from here to their home in the Blue Mountains to the West or the Iron Hills to the North, and they drive a hard bargain for their wares, but you could find no better place for iron, or perchance gemstones if you wish for fineries.” His finger went tappity-tap on the location marked Iron Hills. “In fact, if dwarven steel is what you are after, then you have all the more reason to hear my request.”  
  
Then his gaze trailed across the room. All of a sudden tension racked up, and 'boiler irregularity' could hardly account for the thumping in Kirishima's chest.  
  
But then his gaze stopped on Sendai and Jintsuu, and his lips curled.  
  
“This business,” he said, “requires some measure of confidentiality.”  
  
Jintsuu at once looked to Kirishima with a “shall I go” look plastered on her face. Sendai, however, was infuriated.  
  
“I'm the night-battle cruiser, old man! NIGHT-BATTLE CRUISER!” she shouted. “I know how to keep a secret more than anyone on this base!”  
  
“I am sure I would take your title under advisement, my dear Miss,” said the wizard, “when our business should become common knowledge. As it is now, I insist.”  
  
Given such insistence, what could Kirishima have done but nod? “Sendai, Jintsuu, you can go,” she said. “I'll call you if something comes up.”  
  
Again the tension mounted. When the door finally closed behind a huffing Sendai, it took Kirishima a second before she could speak at all again.  
  
“Please do go on, I'm listening.” It didn't come off too unprofessional. Or so she hoped.  
  
The wizard, too, drew a long breath. “The business I ask involves a prince of the dwarves,” he said. “who wishes to reclaim a lost ancestral home. His name is Thorin Oakenshield, of the line of Durin chiefest and mightiest of all Dwarrows who dwell on Arda.” Now his finger moved to a curious location on the map: a single mountain virtually adjacent to a large in-land lake. “The dwarven city of Erebor is his by birthright, and for many years has he longed to return to his rightful place as King Under the Mountain.”  
  
Kirishima blinked. A VVIP! “Is this... Thorin Oakenshield, is he a head of state in exile by any chance?”  
  
“I assure you he would not oppose to being so called in the least, for had Erebor not come under assault and become ruined, he would now be seated on its carven throne as King Under the Mountain,” said Gandalf. “Erebor has had quite a history and more than its share of sorrow.”  
  
Could she make the call? Should she wait for the Admiral? Of course she should – heck, had they still been in Japan, anything having to do with a foreign head-of-state in exile wanting intervention to restore his government was over even the Admiral's pay grade as well.  
  
“But of course,” he said. “I understand, it is never an easy thing to make decisions involving the many. All the same I implore you not to tarry! For greater things are at work.”  
  
_He is definitely hiding something_.  
  
“Can't you tell me _what greater thing_ are we talking about here?” she said. “After all, you want us to trust you.”  
  
“Alas, it's too early to say for sure what lies at the end of the road,” the wizard said. “This dwarf-prince has many an enemy, and I think it unwise for too many to know what the expedition's true purpose is.”  
  
“You are among friends,” Kirishima pointed out. “People that you want to be your friend.”  
  
The wizard fell into a pensive trance, and as if to test Kirishima's patience, resumed his blowing of large, fluffy, round smoke-rings.  
  
“At the end of the road a dragon awaits,” said Gandalf at long last. “For the sake of the Free Peoples of Eriador, he must be ridden of, before he joins forces with the Shadow.” He blew another smoke-ring that rose to the ceiling. “And there are other works, too, that I intend to attend to along the way. Largely the interest of wizards, you see, but I would not say no to helpers if they are keen-eyed and tight-lipped enough.”  
  
It took Kirishima all of her willpower not to say if they were going by _dragon_ designation, then the naval district had several itself. She decided that wouldn't be helpful.  
  
“How certain are you,” she said instead, “that this expedition of yours would be successful?”  
  
Gandalf shook his head. “I can give no guarantee,” he said. “It doesn't bid well to take live dragons lightly, and many things could go astray on such an adventure.”  
  
“In that case,” said Kirishima, suddenly finding the strength of presence she needed. “You're asking us to rent out our numbers on what you claim to be a very dangerous mission, that involves _serious_ political consideration on top of the danger. That's not a decision to be taken lightly under any circumstance. Despite how we look, we're _not_ a mercenary company and our subordinates are _not_ throwaways.”  
  
The wizard was unfazed. “Perhaps,” he said. “But you need help, and you need friends, and-” Another smoke ring; another popping vein on Kirishima's face. “-Pardon me for being perchance presumptuous, you need a purpose.”  
  
This was the part where Nagato would have undoubtedly begun an intimidation match. But Kirishima wasn't Nagato. The intelligence fairies inside her at once began drafting scenarios, because that was the _one_ thing she could do better than Nagato.  
  
And their chorus of _desu_ told her that this was precisely the kind of blatantly imperialistic intervention that would have made the most bellicose of His Late Majesty's central staff proud.  
  
“I can make no promise until the Admiral has heard of this,” she said, and that was the most conservative and cordial she could be.  
  
“Which is as it should be, my dear Miss,” he said. “But should you agree...” His finger was tapping on a part of the map that read _Hobbiton, the Shire_. “I would implore you to send your men, whoever they are, to a placed called the Green Dragon Inn, here. It wouldn't take very long, if you take the straight road from the Old Ford – that's where Miss Mutsuki met me perchance. I would be waiting, though not for long either. If the dwarves are not held up by their own business (which, granted, is a distinct possibility), we would depart before the month ends.”  
  
Then he stood up, and bowed, and turned on his heel around towards the door. “Good day to you,” he said.  
  
“Sendai, Jintsuu,” she called out. “Escort the... the wizard out of the district, please.”  
  
She stared at the table while the two light cruisers walked into the room and walked out with the wizard behind them. She waited, and waited, and waited some more, until she was so sure the two light cruisers had escorted the wizard out of sight.  
  
She sighed, and leaned back against the sofa's headrest. _This was stressful._  
  
And then a chorus of _desu desu desu desu_ came from her radio cabin, calling her to _turn on the radio receiver already_.  
  
“ _Ah, Kirishima-san! You're done with the- with the guest, I suppose?_ ”  
  
“Ooyodo-san,” she said. “I'm done. Everything's fine.”  
  
“ _I'm glad._ _The Admiral calls you to his office, on the double_.”  
  
Kirishima's boilers went on overdrive. Had something happened? An emergency? No, no, she was being too jittery. She was just not all that prepared for all of this. What she could do, was run. She charged across the length of the naval district at a speed that would make destroyers spin, and charged up the command officer. She pushed open the Admiral's door with such force it almost came off the hinge.  
  
What she saw was the office packed to the brim with battleships surrounding his table.  
  
Her lips trembled. “Kongou-neesan? Hiei-neesan? Haruna-chan? Mutsu-san? _Admiral_ , sir?”  
  
The tremble only grew when her eyes turned to the table itself. There, a radio device was buzzing, while the printer had just finished printing several copies of transcript. The implication was not lost on Kirishima, and her face went red as a beetroot.  
  
“Y-y-you were...” she stammered. “You were all listening?”  
  
“Of course!” exclaimed Kongou in crisp English. “Like I can abandon my little sister on her first day on the job?”  
  
“These decryption devices aren't just for show, you know,” said Mutsu with a giggle.  
  
“Great job, Kirishima-chan!” exclaimed Hiei. “It's a great success you didn't punch that wizard to a pulp already, I know I would have!” She muttered under her breath, “Cryptic old bastard.”  
  
And Haruna was being Haruna. “Onee-san sounds amazing! Haruna is so proud!”  
  
The Admiral, too, broke into a hearty chuckle. “Believe it or not, the staff meeting ended early for once. First thing I knew, Kongou roped me into eavesdropping,” he said. “Never thought I'd be reduced to this.... not that it's all bad”  
  
Kirishima swallowed a lump. Courage came back to her, and with it professionalism.  
  
“So you are aware, Admiral, sir,” she said, straightening her back. “May I ask... what do you think, sir? About the... the wizard's offer?”  
  
“Mmm, that's definitely serious business enough to go through the next staff meeting,” he said with a very long sigh that said ' _so much work_ '. “But I have to ask: what do _you_ think, Kirishima?”  
  
Kirishima blinked. And blinked. And blinked some more. “Eh? Me?”  
  
“Yes, you, Fast Battleship Kirishima,” said the Admiral. “If you are authorized to make a decision, would you help the wizard with his 'business'?”  
  
As was habitual, Kirishima turned to her sisters. Kongou's eyes twinkled expectantly. Hiei was mouthing “ _Screw him_ ”. Haruna was simply nodding and smiling like she always did. That meant one for, one against, and one abstention. _You aren't making this easier for me, you know_.  
  
No matter. She'd got her mind made. “I would say no, sir,” she said finally.

  
***

  
Gandalf walked away from the base with more than one chuckle. It was not everyday that he'd be eavesdropped on by ships, and – despite protesting – he didn't really mind. At any rate, their attempt was too transparent.  
  
_They would be needed soon enough._

 

*******


	8. Part the Eighth

**PART THE EIGHTH**  
  
**IN WHICH INAZUMA FOUND A FRIEND, A SWORD, AND SOME SELF-DISCOVERY**

  
  
  
The first time Inazuma came to Rivendell (' _Is that the name, nanodesu?'_ She'd quietly mutter the word to herself, so odd it sounded to her ears), she'd come as something of an intruder. They'd carried that boy Estel, groaning with a sprained ankle and blindly following his directions, through a path marked with little stone markers. They'd ran down a cloven ravine and into a lush valley where there was a great archway leading to a great manor-house, and there met the elves: tall, otherworldly, high in light. Nagato had given them a small earful, too: “Anything could have happened,” she'd said. “They could have taken you hostages, or worse!”  
  
The second time around, she was a guest and part of an official fleet too. It was not a very large fleet – Nagato-san had made a clear point only to bring as many ships as was necessary and no more. They'd assembled themselves now in one of Rivendell's many courtyards: Nagato-san, Tenryuu-san and Haguro-san, Zuihou and Taigei, Hachi and Amatsukaze, and of course, Inazuma and Ikazuchi. Their reception, if it could be called as such, was swift and to the point; they were then given a part in the guest quarters: a very large room.  
  
Then they were dismissed, and told by both Nagato-san and their host to go wherever they pleased for the afternoon.  
  
The first afternoon of the 'Delegation Fleet', however, was anything but auspicious.  
  
Tenryuu spent their first afternoon in Rivendell hollering for spars among the elves. She returned at dinner covered in bruises – and was laughing all the way about meeting more than her share of match.  
  
Haguro got lost in the woods adjacent to Rivendell (which Inazuma couldn't quite complain about – that would be pot calling kettle black). She was led back later by a group of elves laughing and singing “Tra-la-la-ly” all the way.  
  
Ditto Hachi, except instead of the woods, it was one of the many reading-rooms in the place. When the elves found her, she was in the middle of trying to decode their flowery script all by herself. An elf wrapped her in a more modest-preserving robe, took her back to the emissary quarters, and then went to have a word with Nagato-san about Hachi's clothes – or lack thereof.  
  
Zuihou fared a little better: her day out mingled among the elves began with watching elven marksmen practicing at the range, and ended with a vein popping on her forehead and a spirited “I'll be back soon!” on her lips.  
  
Ikazuchi muttered something about needing some sleep so that the fleet could start depending on her starting the next day. She showed up at dinner with a yawn and a very sleepy face.  
  
As for Inazuma, she took a walk in the courtyard. Her intention was half to get to know the place, and half to spy. Yes, spy! She was no Sendai, but she was small and easy enough to ignore.  
  
The people who passed by her, clad in blue and silver, standing taller than even Nagato-san, didn't seem to pay her much attention. The more childish part of Inazuma, that part which reveled in quirky turns of phrase and childlike demeanor, that part which loved sweet things and pajamas with cute animal prints, that part which desired to solve all conflicts without hurting the other side, felt a little offended. But the larger part of her, was a destroyer fleetgirl, and that meant maturity hidden even to herself.  
  
It was then, that she saw him again: the boy who fell off the tree, who apparently was Master Elrond's son, sitting beneath a tree, stringing a harp.  
  
Curiousity at once filled her, and she waved at him before she could consider whether it was a good idea.  
  
“Hai, hai, _nanodesu_!” she hollered.  
  
The boy turned about to her, and stood up. His sprained ankle had healed, so quickly and wholly Inazuma could not help but think an instant repair bucket was involved in one way or another.  
  
“Ah, yes, it's you, Miss-” he said – and here paused. “I apologize, I was in distress the last time, and have asked not for your name as per customs.”  
  
Inazuma waved her hand rapidly. “Ah, that's fine, that's fine!” A bow, then a curtsy. “Inazuma, at your service, _nanodesu_!” Akatsuki might not be a real elegant lady yet, but she did give some good pointers from time to time.  
  
The boy smiled. “Well then, Inazuma, like Master Elrond always said, I bid you welcome to the Last Homely House,” he said. “I hope you come as friend and not as foe; to abet us, not to thwart us.”  
  
Inazuma went cross-eyed. “ _Abet_ ”? “ _Thwart_ ”? What ten-year-old would talk like that?  
  
Now she looked closer at his face, and surprise filled her. He could not have been very old: ten, maybe? Inazuma was far older than he was, and deep inside she knew it, and yet she couldn't help but feel overwhelmed by his presence. Now that he wasn't grimacing in distress like their first meeting any more, there was wisdom and serenity in his presence, almost like a spirit of the place. That he was already slightly taller than her didn't help matters.  
  
“The last time, you said, your name is Estel, _nanodesu_?”  
  
“Indeed, and that is a name I am well proud of,” said the boy. “It means _hope_ , in the tongue of the _Eldar_.”  
  
“El-dar, _nano-desu_?” parrotted Inazuma.  
  
“The elves,” said Estel. “That's _People of the Stars_ , in their tongue also.”  
  
“So you aren't an elf?” said Inazuma quizzically. “I thought Master Elrond is your father, _nanodesu_ , and he's an elf, so...”  
  
“Oh, no, Master Elrond isn't my father, and I intend not to bother him for very long,” he said and puffed his chest, and there was great wisdom in his eyes as he looked up into the distance. “Soon I shall go yonder, as Masters Elrohir and Elladan shall lead, into the lands far away, and there shall win great renown to the credit of my House.”  
  
It would have been funny – perhaps laughable – had he not been so absolutely serious. Either way, it wasn't exactly a conversational topic she was interested in very much. A change of topic was necessary, and fast!  
  
“H-hey, Estel- _kun_ ,” she said. “Want to help me out, _nanodesu_?”  
  
“In which way shall I assist?” asked Estel with a nod.  
  
“Is there anywhere _fun_ around here, _nanodesu_?” she asked. “Or, or, or, anything you could show me, _nanodesu_?”  
  
For a while Estel sat still. Then he looked up, and his smile was bright. “There is something you might want to see,” he said, and gestured her to follow him.  
  
Their little steps took them around the largest hall in Rivendell, up several flights of stairs and down two more, and finally along a blue-draped gallery full of display cases and tapestries. At the end of the hallway there was a display case larger than all others, ornately engraved and set with gold, silver and many gems.  
  
Housed inside was a straight sword broken in two, cradled with silk and embroidery. The metal had grown dull and exuded no luster, but rust did not stain it. The handle and pommel were exquisite still, set with gems too, and engraved with many flowery letters.  
  
“Whoa,” said Inazuma. “It's... beautiful, _nanodesu_.”  
  
“Mmm.” He nodded. “Its name is written right here: _Narsil, the Sword that Was Broken_.”  
  
Inazuma began to shift herself around the display case. “Why doesn't anyone mend it? There's nothing a good Instant Repair bucket can't fix, _nanodesu_!”  
  
“Well, that's because the time has yet to come when it shall be reforged. There is a prophecy I have heard,” said Estel. “A great evil has to come to pass, of which nature I know not, before the sword shall be forged again and come into its own.”  
  
While Inazuma was still wow-ing, Estel was smiling – and going on with his introduction.  
  
“Master Elrond is very fond of this relic,” he said. “It used to belong to... a friend, he had said, from many centuries ago _._ ”  
  
“And he still keeps it like this,” said Inazuma. “That person must have been a very great friend, _nanodesu!”_  
  
“Such is the way it should be, for it represents the kindred spirit between my people and the _Eldar_ ,” said Estel. “The friendship of the elves are eternal; for they are immortal, and never leaves Arda ere the world be remade to a better plan.” Here he scratched his head and puckered his lip, and for once his veil of wisdom and maturity broke. “Or, well, that's what Master Erestor says, anyway.”  
  
Inazuma blinked. “You're not sure, _nanodesu_?”  
  
“No, no, I am,” said Estel, and he actually started to scratch the back of his head like a ten-year-old would. Inazuma couldn't help but giggle into her hands. “Whenever I asked, they said I'd find out soon enough. When I'd returned with great deeds of renown. When I'd made myself worthy of my Name.”  
  
Inazuma stood still now. “Mmhmm,” she went, and began looking up and down the two shards.  
  
What she felt was emotions, pure and overwhelming.  
  
It was as if something was there: something bright, something dark, something valorous, something shameful. There was sorrow, too, so much sorrow and regret of the sort she was no stranger to. So much, she couldn't tear her eyes from the shards; it felt so much like _them_ , like those souls within her so violently extinguished in flashes of bombs and shells, and that alone meant so many questions popping in Inazuma's head.  
  
_In whose name had they been fighting? Against whom had they been fighting? For what had they been fighting?_  
  
_It doesn't matter, does it, nanodesu?_  
  
Tears came to her eyes. She did not know why, but it was not a feeling she was a stranger to. War. Clashes of steel. Fire. Death. Horror. Misery. But that was not all there was: in the deepest places, from the darkest shadow, there was valor and honor and sacrifice and _hope eternal_.  
  
It came to her, calling to the deepest part of her, and that moment she could feel all of her fairies doffing their hats.  
  
Inazuma, too, stepped back from the display case. She stood up straight, and did the only thing she could. She drew her hand up in a salute: a veteran of a great war, paying respect to veterans of another great war.  
  
Next to her, Estel stood and watched. He might not understand the gravitas, not yet. He was but a boy, kingly though he might be, and at any rate had not seen that which Inazuma had seen – that haunted her dreams today still beneath the surface.  
  
But his hand was slowly moving to where his heart was.

 

  
***

  
Later that night, the Rivendell Convoy Fleet was treated to nothing less than a full-course meal that would have made Yamato proud. It was a welcoming party in all ways: There was food, there was music, and there was a certain kind of warmth about.  
  
(There was no wine for the Destroyers. There was, however, a lot of _Gil-Galad was an Elven-king_ and _Earendil was a Mariner._ )  
  
Formalities were exchanged. Lip-services were paid. Words of questionable sincerity, bandied. Inazuma felt like sleeping through it all, though she welcomed the food and the drink. As the night drew on and mealtime finished, she welcomed also the breeze and the songs that carried along the wind under the twinkling stars, and an excessively warm and comforting bath in an enormous bathhouse. It was simple, but relaxing – the little finer things in life indeed.  
  
Hardly had the fleet finished their baths when Nagato-san sounded the summon for a meeting in their quarters.  
  
For such a gathering, their group was surprisingly relaxed. Inazuma was in her bear-printed pajamas. Ikazuchi was lying belly-down on the wooden flooring, propping her chin with both hands. The rest of the fleet was in various states of lying, half-lying, squatting, sitting, slouching, or, in the case of Haguro-san, kneeling like a true elegant lady.  
  
Nagato-san spent the next hour briefing to them the necessary plans for their current operation. How Nagato-san had gotten the time, Inazuma never knew. But the plan under her belt was very detailed: There was to be a constant radio line from base to Rivendell, keeping them up-to-date on the supply situation back home and keeping home up-to-date on whatever talks and negotiations and discussions going on in this Last Homely House. There was to be a careful plan for acquisition of intelligence – both for the generic and non-sensitive and for matters of military importance, and how to encode them. There was to be a rapid-response procedure should something, _anything_ , go pear-shaped – be the cause outside threat or their self-proclaimed 'friends'.  
  
Nagato-san might be paranoid and terribly strict at times, but she was _thorough_ and for once Inazuma couldn't find fault with thoroughness.  
  
When Nagato-san finished passing the last document around the room, she stood back, leaning against the wall, and for the first time in such a long time “I'm no longer the Secretary Ship, and this operation is not a combat mission, I want you to keep your vigilance, but apart from that... apart from that...” She cleared her voice. “If you think there's anything you want to say, any at all, please, feel free.”  
  
Inazuma, at this point, sprang back to consciousness. A thought sparked to her.  
  
“Nagato-san,” she asked softly. “ _How much_ do you trust these elves?”  
  
“Why do you ask?” At once her voice turned a touch more alert. “Did you find something suspicious?”  
  
“Not really, _nanodesu_ ,” said Inazuma. “I just wanted to ask you, Nagato-san. How you feel about... well, about everything, _nanodesu_!”  
  
No answer.  
  
_Well, Nagato-san, you brought it upon yourself, nanodesu_. She proceeded to fix the former Secretary Ship with the most devastating puppy-eye she could at once muster.  
  
Nagato-san's furious blush was almost _audible_.  
  
“T-they aren't necessarily a- a danger or anything, i-if you ask,” she said. Then she coughed – once, twice, thrice – and wiped the blush off her face. “More than that I don't know for sure.”  
  
Inazuma only smiled. “I know, right, _nanodesu._ ”

   
***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There has been, thanks to much needed feedback on the Spacebattles thread, major edits to the first three chapters. Credit goes to Scyld_Norning, Bacle and the other helpful critiquers on that side!


	9. Chapter 9

**PART THE NINTH**  
  
**IN WHICH BUCKY PREPARED TO HEAD FOR BUCKLAND**

  
  
  
Today Mamiya's cafe was bustling with activities, Fubuki noted, and it wasn't a riot or anything. Two weeks ago, that was very much a lingering fear on top of her mind.  
  
Their ration had been topped up too, and for the first time in weeks Akagi was munching away at a jumbo-sized plate – full of tomato and corn and potatoes and cabbages rather than the standard Japanese fare she was fond of. Her carrier _senpai_ had decided food was food was food, and was halfway through the small mountain by the time Fubuki came in with a small flotilla of destroyers in tow. Mostly-happy destroyers, at that!  
  
How did it happen? The answer was, “never underestimate the resourcefulness of hungry fleetgirls”.  
  
On one hand, Irako was finally able to get a headstart on a greenhouse, with lots of help from Arashi and Yuubari. On the other, Yamato-san was doing a good job coordinating the base personnel's hunting and foraging in the nearby wood and brooks. On the _other_ other hand, the Rivendell fleet was carting in the first batch of supply from downstream.  
  
“Enough to top up our stocks for a month, _nanodesu_!” said Inazuma, happily chomping on a piece of _takoyaki_ made from corn flour.  
  
Ikazuchi threw a glance at Akagi's ginormous plate. She leaned closer to her sister. “Maybe a lot less than that,” she said quietly – but loud enough for the whole table to hear.  
  
“Still, getting them to give us all this stuff,” said Mutsuki. “Nagato-san must be amazing at persuasion, isn't she?”  
  
Fubuki smiled at her chirpy voice. It was the happiest Mutsuki had been for weeks – almost like she'd been back to the day they first met again.  
  
“It's more like we _have_ something they really want!” said Akatsuki.  
  
Then she wagged her fingers and gestured everyone to inch closer. “Aerial photos. For maps,” she said. “Nagato-san apparently got them to pay loads in exchange for high-definition photos!”  
  
Yuudachi began blinking rapidly. “They want _maps_ , _poi_?” she said incredulously.  
  
Fubuki's mouth went agape for just a second... and then a figurative lightbulb sparked to life in her bridge. It made a lot of sense: aerial cartography was not yet a thing in this world, and all the maps of Middle-earth the naval district had obtained had been hand-drawn and rough-around-the-edges, magical and ethereal as the elves seemed to be. Meanwhile, the naval district's fleet _did_ have hundreds of planes without targets to shoot at.  
  
It was as simple as one plus one equal two.  
  
“Yup!” said Ikazuchi. “So Nagato-san said they could depend on us for intel!” At this she puffed her cheek in mock-anger. “Totally stole the word out of my mouth too!”  
  
“So now there's enough food to go around for a while, _nanodesu_!” said Inazuma with a grin.  
  
“And when Irako-san gets the greenhouse all up and running, we'll have some elegant proper food!” said Akatsuki.  
  
Hibiki took a sip of juice. “ _Spasibo_ ,” she said, and leaned back against the wall.  
  
“You know,” Mutsuki said. “I can't help but think they're trying to help us in secret.”  
  
Fubuki nodded , but did not smile. Doubt, and lots of it, had been gnawing at her ever since the elves and their many friends started barging into the naval district's business. Call her petty, Fubuki didn't mind, but trusting that grey-bearded wizard had gotten Mutsuki scolded not just by Kaga, but Nagato-san too. And maybe a lot worse, if the hush-hush voice and strange looks some of the less sociable heavy cruisers and base personnels had been giving her were of any indication. Things like _careless_ or _overemotional_ or _indiscreet_ or _incompetent_.  
  
Her dear, caring, gentle, _fragile_ friend had suffered enough within a year already; she _really_ didn't need this on her mind.  
  
Then once again the big door slid open, and through it came Atago. Which was to say-  
  
“Pan-paka-pa~n!” she exclaimed with outstretched arms.  
  
The four destroyers of the Sixth Division turned around. Four pairs of arms stretched out, “Pan-paka-pa~n!” they went, which then broke into a chain of giggles across the table.  
  
Without further fanfare Atago brought herself around to Fubuki's side of the table. “One tempura rice here!” she called out.  
  
Then she looked at the table. “Huh, looks like this table is full...”  
  
Yuudachi nodded. Akatsuki nodded. Hibiki nodded also. But at that Atago's face only went starry-bright. She leaned closer towards Fubuki and her former roommates.  
  
“Oh, Fubuki-chan, Mutsuki-chan, and Yuudachi-chan?” she said. “Kirishima-san wants to see you.” She winked. “The Secretary Ship is waiting for you three right about now, ufufu~”  
  
Then unceremoniously she _plucked_ Fubuki off her mattress.

 

***

  
“Eh? A long expedition?”  
  
The war room echoed with Fubuki's surprised shout.  
  
Kirishima nodded; she adjusted her glasses and pointed at a specific location on the map on the table. At the largest crossroad in five hundred miles stood a large black spot with “Bree” next to it..  
  
“Bree's the name,” she said. “Funny, that name, but if that's what they call it, that's what they call it. Intel says it's just a small town – little more than a hamlet, really – but it's a major trade hub in this region, and the Admiral has decided we can't simply ignore it. Someone would have to get down there and _literally_ set up shops. And before that, someone would have to make first contact.”  
  
Fubuki looked at the map. It was a hundred kilometers from the naval district to the Old Ford, and several more in a very straight road to the region labeled “ _Bree-land_ ”. The former, maybe four hours at flank speed. The latter... well, that would be more problematic. Assume they could cover forty kilometers a day – and that was a very big if because they were going on foot into charter-but-largely-unknown country – it might take up to two weeks to cover the whole length. And that was if no complications would pop up. _And that's a very big assumption too._  
  
“Now,” said Kirishima, “we could send a convoy of base personnel, which means plenty of supplies just getting there, plus a good lot of _very_ conspicuous weapons” She snapped her finger. “Or we could send some destroyers incognito. Three sisters visiting relatives, bringing some farm goods for sale at the market for money on the side, that sort of thing.” She wagged a finger in front of Fubuki's face. “I don't need _calculations_ to know nothing could possibly go wrong – especially not with you in charge, Fubuki.”  
  
Fubuki was more or less speechless. “I, uh...” _'Nothing could possibly go wrong,'_ she thought with a frown _. Should I say that's a very inauspicious thing to say before a long mission?_ No, she shook her head inside. That would only make the already bad omen even worse.  
  
Kirishima-san, naturally, had nothing but the utmost optimism. “Hey, now, don't worry!” she said cheerfully. “Apparently those 'Rangers' Asashio ran into the other day are responsible for keeping the road clear. Unless they've been slacking off, you'd have no trouble.”  
  
Yuudachi shifted in her place. “Sounds exciting, _poi_!” she exclaimed. “Would there be lots of action along the way, _poi_?”  
  
Kirishima's smile faded – just a little. “Actually, I want you to take it easy.” Now she stood up and walked around down the left side of the room, and stopped when she was just behind Mutsuki. “Especially you, Mutsuki-chan,” she said, and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Consider it a long holiday trekking across the countryside. No need to push yourselves too hard, we'd be happy if you get there within twenty days and maintain radio contact the whole time, and-”  
  
But all the time, Mutsuki's expression was darkening, and her eyes was turning misty. Fubuki spotted it first, and maybe Yuudachi second. When Kirishima noticed, it was far too late to mend her words.  
  
“I'm not afraid of fighting,” Mutsuki said softly, shoulder trembled under Kirishima's hand.  
  
Kirishima blinked. She leaned down to catch a glimpse of Mutsuki's face – only to be startled by an angry stare from beneath her canopy of hair.  
  
“Mutsuki-chan?”  
  
Mutsuki wasn't moving, though her hands were curled into balls. “I said, I'm not afraid of fighting!” she cried, softly, but hoarsely. “All that last month, it's always been, scout here, scout there, find this, find that? And-and now? _Take it easy_? _A long holiday_? _No need to push myself too hard_?”  
  
“Mutsuki-chan...” said Kirishima. “I... you should know better. There's nobody to fight. Not yet. If there'd be a threat-”  
  
Mutsuki drew in a small breath. “Am I that incompetent, Kirishima- _san_?” she said.  
  
For a while the room was left speechless. All Kirishima could manage to do, was to readjust her glasses, with a gesture that pretty much said, ' _whatever have I ever done to you?'_ and who could have blamed her? That, however, she did not say out loud.  
  
“I acknowledge your grievance, whatever it might be,” she said, in that battleship business-like voice of hers. “and will take it into consideration.”  
  
Saying that much seemed to flip a switch inside Mutsuki. “I'm sorry,” she said, barely audibly. “I've... I've spoken out of turn...”  
  
That was the last she spoke for the rest of the briefing. Her stare was fixed at the carpeted floor. Her nods felt like shakes. When they were finally dismissed, her salute was bent.  
  
When they left the room, the first thing Mutsuki did was running off and away.  
  
“Mutsuki-chan!”  
  
“Let her,” said Kirishima. She laid her hand now on Fubuki's shoulder. “Sometimes.... I do feel we'd failed her. In one way or another.”  
  
“Maybe you should come back and get her later, _poi_?” said Yuudachi.  
  
Maybe she would. That might be for the better, she thought.  
  
She didn't have time to ponder, because right then the Secretary Ship's shoulder-pat suddenly turned into a shoulder-grab.  
  
“Oh, and I almost forgot, Fubuki-chan,” said Kirishima with a glint of mischief in her voice. “There's something I need you to keep an eye out for me."  
  
She dragged Fubuki back into the war room, leaving Yuudachi out, puzzled.

 

***

  
“Bicycles? For a scouting mission?”  
  
Yuudachi's voice was muffled behind her welding-mask, but Fubuki could still make out how _startled_ she'd been.  
  
“Yup!” said Fubuki with her firmest nod.  
  
Indeed the mental image would be quite hilarious when they thought about it: three destroyers going on an expedition... on land... on dirt-bikes.  
  
Now Yuubari was doffing her welding-mask for good. Her eyes were goggly behind it. “Are you... sure it's inconspicuous enough?” she said. “I mean, there are no bicycles in this... so very low-tech world, is there? You'd stand out like a sore thumb.”  
  
“I don't think so. There aren't that many people on the road, and even if they saw us, a bike is no military secret is it?” said Fubuki. “We need to be able to escape threats _quick_ on land because Kirishima-san had told us not to engage unless absolutely necessary! Without fuel or motorized vehicles, bikes would be the next best choice!” She wiped her forehead; Yuubari's workshop was nothing less than _incredibly_ hot. “It would also not be too costly to replace if we somehow lose them on the way.”  
  
Yuubari cast aside her mask incredulously. “Somehow _lose_ them?”  
  
“It's four hundred kilometers, Yuubari-san, and the quality of the road is-” she said, and pulled out several photos from her pocket, straight from one of Zuikaku's scout planes. The road was bumpy and uneven, and looked like it would become a quagmire of mud and dirt given the smallest drizzle. “-questionable at best.”  
  
“Man, I don't know about this. I really want to know if you've cleared this with the Admiral before I'd...”  
  
“Kirishima-san said yes!” exclaimed Fubuki, stretching out the hand-written note she'd kept just for this purpose. _I authorize the Special Type Destroyer Fubuki to requisition_ any _non-fuel-based, non-ammunition-based_ _equipment from the warehouse for the purpose of her expedition_ , it said. She looked at the underlined text and giggled a little inside. Kirishima was kind and generous and _so, so thorough_.  
  
Yuubari wiped her forehead and grinned.  
  
“Aye, aye, _kikan-chan_ , if you said so.” Fubuki shuddered at the nickname. After MI and Solomon, gone were all hopes she'd ever live down the reputation of _that little ship that led_. “How many do you need? Most of the bikes we have around are garbage, don't think I can tune up more than half a dozen in such short notice.”  
  
“Three's all I need, Yuubari-san.” She stopped for a second. “But could I ask you to fix two first? The last one...” She stopped for another second. “No, please get all three done as soon as possible. Could I come back for it tomorrow morning?”  
  
“Sure can,” said Yuubari. “If that's just it, the whole thing shouldn't take that long – unless you want them fixed with machineguns and rocket-launchers or something like that double-oh-something guy.”  
  
Fubuki ticked items off her list. _Supplies, done. Vehicle, done. Maps, done. Weapons, done._ (For that last one she decided that 'borrowing' one or three of Tenryuu's swords while she was away was less hassle than fumbling with high-caliber guns and/or torpedoes in scuffles with ruffians or wildlife)  
  
That was most things done. Now for the last one.  
  
She was sitting there, like she always did, on the peak of the hill with the moss-covered anchor. Now it no longer looked out into the open seas, but into a branch of the river maybe a dozen meters across. On the other side, there was a hilly roughland covered by short, stubby trees.  
  
The view was awful. It was only by force of habit that Mutsuki would go sit there.  
  
“Fubuki-chan...”  
  
She inched aside. They'd gather themselves here, the two of them, so often that it was almost habitual for Mutsuki to give her some space.  
  
“I'm sorry, Fubuki-chan,” she said. “I've been a nuisance, haven't I?”  
  
At once Fubuki did not know what to say. _No, of course you aren't_ was on the tip of her tongue, yet she felt it wasn't going to be extremely helpful. Because Mutsuki hadn't been rational, and who could have blamed her?  
  
So she said nothing. She only inched closer to Mutsuki, and grabbed her hand.  
  
“I... I was thinking about the wizard.”  
  
Fubuki swallowed hard. “The wizard? That Gandalf guy?” She paused, and struggled against herself whether she should say the next thing she wanted to say or not. “Didn't he get you into a _heap_ of trouble?”  
  
“That's true,” said Mutsuki. “But then... but then there was that red light of his...” Her eyes turned misty again. “I don't know what it is, Fubuki-chan, but... it made me happy. Happier than I'd been since...”  
  
She couldn't finish, but here her hand tightened around Fubuki's.  
  
“It made me hope.” she said. “Hope that things would get better. Hope that we'll get our closure, to our war, to.... to everything. Hope that...” Her voice trailed off, and her palm quivered in Fubuki's hand. “... Hope that Kisaragi-chan would come back... again...”  
  
Perhaps she would. No, of _course_ she would; Fubuki had allowed herself to hope ever since Kisaragi came back – only to _go_ again. If she could come back once, who was to say she wouldn't return once more?  
  
But then again, even if Kisaragi _would_ , would she ever manage to make her way through the dimension to where they are now stuck? And even so...  
  
“I just thought... I was just hoping – if I saw that wizard again, would he be able to tell me...”  
  
Three times Fubuki tried to say something sensible. Like, it wasn't really a hope worth holding on to. Like, sometimes hope was a cruel thing. Or, like, that old man was probably a charlatan anyway – the third being the opinion she'd had of that geezer Gandalf since day one.  
  
Three times she stayed silent, and held her friend's hand closer to her.  
  
“Look, Fubuki-chan,” said Mutsuki, pointing at the stretch of narrow river and the rocky hillside beyond. “The view... the view here is so ugly now. I don't like it. I don't like it at all! Kisaragi-chan wouldn't like it too, would she?”  
  
Fubuki nodded, because that was what she was thinking too: the naval district was not the same, they were not the same, the war was not the same, and now tears were coming to her eyes too. That consummate military-girl part of her was kicking her inside in protest: this was no auspicious way to start a long mission, no sir!  
  
But then from the river valley below a breeze came, bearing with it the smell of wet grass along the banks and the wildflower of the dale. It blew by the girls' face, tousled their hair and sent stray strands flying, and dried the tears on the rim of their eyes. It was calming and quaint.  
  
Middle-earth was, truly, not a bad place to be.  
  
“But the wind is nice,” Fubuki said. “And the grass, too.” It was the first thing to come to her mind. “Go with me, Mutsuki-chan,” she said, and stretched out her palm. “There may be no sea any more, but there's wind and grass. And that's good enough for now, right? For you, for me... and for hope. Is it?”  
  
It was not an argument. It was not even consolation. It was just... a sentence, that might as well make no sense. Yet that was what her heart told her, _this is the right thing to say_.  
  
She looked at Mutsuki's face, and felt the warmth of Mutsuki's palm in her hand.  
  
Mutsuki's smile was almost happy.  
  
Almost.


	10. Chapter 10

**PART THE TENTH**  
  
**IN WHICH AKAGI LOST PLANES FAR OVER THE MISTY MOUNTAINS COLD**  
  
**\- ALSO NUT-EATERS (AND MEDDLING ELVES)**

  
  
  
“Over the Misty Mountains?”  
  
Nagato's fingers ran along the contours of the great mountain range at the center of her map. Her left hand was cupped over her ear, over the pagoda-mast decoration in her hair. She bit her lip, and her temple was throbbing. The smell of flower carried in by the breeze through the open window (whose sill was perpendicular to her desk) didn't even register, much less sooth her.  
  
“Tell me more,” she said over the secure channel. She tried to be as quiet as she could, so her voice sounded much like a growl.  
  
The static interference was considerable, and Akagi's voice was clearly anxious behind it.  
  
“I was sending out another recon squadron to the Misty Mountains this morning. Five Zeros in total, covering the Northeastern sector,” she said gravely. “I lost contact with the first plane at 0849. I diverted a second plane to search for the first at 0855. Five minutes later...” Her anxiousness grew more palpable in the pause. “I thought I heard the sound of....” Her voice shuddered. “ _very_ sharp nail on iron – the plane went down. Then just one minute later, I lost contact with the third...”  
  
“Did you send out any other plane?” asked Nagato.  
  
“I thought it wiser to withdraw all remianing planes from the sector and inform the Admiral first,” said Akagi. “Three Zeros over ten minutes without _any_ known combat, Nagato-san. I would not risk any more planes or fairies if I could help it.”  
  
“What did the Admiral say?”  
  
“He would look into it,” said Akagi. “He sounded as baffled as you do.”  
  
“And Kiri- the Secretary Ship?” It'd been two weeks and still it was hard to get used to Kirishima sitting in her old place, but Nagato had sworn to persevere. No bitterness there, no sir!  
  
“She's extremely concerned,” said Akagi. “And... so am I. That we'd been attacked by something on which we have no intel whatsoever.”  
  
“What if it's an accident?” said Nagato. “The planes could have crashed into the mountainside due to poor visibility.” Plausible. It was almost always foggy over the Misty Mountains, the elves had said, hence the name.  
  
She could almost hear Akagi shaking on the other end of the radio. “Kirishima did not rule out the possibility of a collision,” she said. “But collisions wouldn't take out three planes in quick succession like that.”  
  
“But your aircrafts weren't shot at,” insisted Nagato.  
  
“I honestly don't know,” said Akagi. “They might have been attacked by _something_ using non-ammo-based weapons. The _second_ plane was brought down by something _extremely heavy and extremely strong_ just from the sound alone.”  
  
“No chance it might be an Abyssal?”  
  
“No, not at all,” said Akagi. “We've been fighting them long enough. You and I, we would have known if it had been them - from _sound_ alone too.”  
  
“Who else knows about this?” asked Nagato.  
  
“Just me, the Admiral, Kirishima, a few of the staff officers, and Kaga.”  
  
“It's no longer my place to make any call, but I... would like you to keep this quiet until we find out something. Especially to the destroyers.” She hadn't been back to the Naval District during the last resource haul, but Inazuma and Ikazuchi and Amatsukaze came back with smile and laughter. “Let them think everything's going on all right. For now.”  
  
“I'll do that,” said Akagi.  
  
“Give me the coordinates,” said Nagato. “I'll figure something out.” Then she had the fairies switch radio off.  
  
Another bout of headache came to Nagato as the communication channel closed. They'd been operating over the last weeks as if their planes ruled the sky without dispute. If there were something in this world that could actually take down their aircraft so easily... that would change everything.  
  
_Three aircraft in ten minutes without a single shot._  
  
There was little chance, if Nagato was to think logically, the incident had not been an orchestrated attack. There was a possibility they'd crossed over into an area they were not welcome. Not that there had been any way to know: 'airspace' was not a term the denizens of Middle Earth was likely familiar with.  
  
_But what could it be?_  
  
At that exact instance, the corner of her eyes caught something moving. She narrowed her eyes... and caught an excessively _adorable_ thing.  
  
It was red and small and fluffy and so, so squeaky. A squirrel, such as it was, had seen it fit to invade Nagato's office space, jumping through the window she'd left ajar. .  
  
At once a very bright flush came to Nagato's cheeks. _Squirrel. Squirrel. Squirrel!_  
  
She tried to suppress herself. Swallow once. _That's right, I'm **working** right here._ Swallow twice. She was among elves. Swallow thrice. She was representing the naval district, no, the whole of Japan in the eyes of these foreigners! She must not cause embarrassment to-  
  
_Squeak_ , went the squirrel again.  
  
“Nnnnnngh...” Tearing her eyes off the little thing with the long fluffy tail was _nigh impossible_.  
  
And then the squirrel, the crafty little thing hopped on her table. _Her. Table._ There was a cute little nut in its cute little paws. _So fluffy_.  
  
_Squeak,_ it went. _Squeak. Squeak._ _Squeeeak_. What was Nagato of the Big Seven to do?  
  
She looked left. Nobody there. She turned right. Nobody there. She swung behind because the last time it had been her blind spot. Nobody there either.  
  
Breathe in. Breathe out.  
  
Nagato's hand inched out, and out, and out... her trembling fingertip was almost upon the squirrel now... it was not moving...  
  
“My lady Nagato?”  
  
She jerked. She drew herself back. “Come in,” she said, and withdrew her hand from the squirrel. A tall, lean figure sporting smooth flowing black hair in a blue rope shuffled through the doorway: in front of her stood one of Master Elrond's son, _very subtly_ letting Nagato know her office door was not as secure as she had thought it was.  
  
Nagato's jaw almost dropped in horror. _The door._ _It had been ajar all along_.  
  
But the elf didn't seem to see the problem. “My apologies,” he said. “Knocking I have tried, though indisposed you had seemed.” He agilely swept down into a bow. “How may, then, Elladan son of Elrond be of your service?”  
  
The squirrel now hopped off the table. It bounced off the pile of paper on Nagato's desk, launched itself on the window-sill, then scooted around before a final jump. It landed on Elladan's shoulder, light as a feather.  
  
“Ah!” she exclaimed. Her eyes were _glued_ on the squirrel.  
  
“Fear no little one, my lady,” he said. “They are free as the wind, and bears no ill will against the guests of Ada's hall.” So very cordially, and yet every word pricked Nagato's face like needles.  
  
_He's seen it. He's seen it. He's seen it_. Nagato's face This was the part where she should scuttle herself out of shame-  
  
“Are you well, my lady?” asked Elladan. “You look very... flushed.”  
  
She cleared her voice. And again. And again. _Must drown out the blush,_ she thought. _I am a soldier of Japan!_  
  
“I... am fine, sir,” she said with a firm salute that nonetheless felt so awkward.  
  
And Elladan. Did. Not. Stop. “Are you quite sure, my lady?” he said. “A fever, yes, for while Imladris is fair, the mortal kind are likely to fall into one sort of ailment or another should they work too hard. Not to worry, we have healers, many and well-learned in their craft. Though illnesses we scantly have need for treatment, it is a fine craft to hone all the same, for other beings of Arda are less fortunate than we are-”  
  
It was then that Nagato found out, Elladan was _quite_ fond of his own voice. In a sense, she couldn't blame him: his voice was _indeed_ quite beautiful. And annoying, such as right now.  
  
“I said I am fine, sir,” Nagato coughed, for one last time now. “You wished to speak to me?”  
  
“Alas, it is nothing of particular importance,” he said. “I heard grave voice from within this here room, and thought something might have gone terribly amiss, and perhaps wrongly assumed I might be of assistance.”  
  
At once Nagato grew more alert. _Did he hear of my radio? But I wasn't even_ that _loud!_  
  
She rubbed her face, and then the most spontaneous thought came to her mind. “Oh, Elladan-san?” _This is professional,_ she chanted. _This is not embarrassing. This is professional._ “I would like to speak to your father. There's a matter of importance that I need to...”  
  
“Indeed!” said Elladan so enthusiastically. “You are in luck, my lady, Ada is quite happy to discuss some matters of his own with you...” He gestured her to follow him, the squirrel was still, through all of this, perched atop his shoulder.  
  
... did the little thing just wag its long fluffy tail at her?

 

***

  
When Nagato saw Elrond on the porch, the elf-lord was taking tea; though he was not quite relazing: his brows were curving, and just before Nagato announced herself he was gazing deep at the green field below, lost in thoughts.  
  
“Ah, my lady Nagato,” said the elf-lord. “I hope your previous shipment had been satisfactory?”  
  
“Yes, it has been,” said Nagato after a salute. “The rest of our staff are keen to learn what else you could have need that we can provide.”  
  
“We would often have needs for curious things, from time to time,” said Elrond. “My assistant Erestor had said he would like to visit your _naval district_ , and perhaps to stay for a time, as had my son Elladan. They are curious, you see, particularly my son. Learnt is he in the wisdom of our kind, but he longed for greater and more wondrous things all the same – such as our kin who dwelt long ago hidden."  
  
Nagato bit her lip. _Elladan_ was the one name she'd rather not hear mentioned right about now. _Because squirrel_.  
  
“There had been an... incident,” she said, “involving some of our planes flying over the Misty Mountains. I was wondering if there is any information you could share about it.”  
  
“Planes,” said Elrond. The elf-lord had now been familiarized with some of the Japanese navy's terminology. He was no longer giving her odd looks whenever she mentioned 'planes' or 'aircrafts' or 'fighters' or 'recons' or such likes. Still, today there was a certain pensiveness about him that made Nagato quite uneasy.  
  
“Where were you flying these contraptions of yours, my lady?” he asked, quite a bit more bluntly than normal.  
  
“We were trying to photograph the rest of the Misty Mountains,” she said. _Photograph_ was a word Elrond was now quite familiar with: he nodded in acknowledgement. “Some of our pilots were approaching the Northeastern side of the mountain range-”  
  
Now Nagato looked up to see Elrond gazing at her: The look of his face had now became more grim and less fair, as if he'd just recalled some ominous thing of great importance.  
  
“I would advise you, then, to keep your distance from that part of the Mountains,” said Elrond. “There is a formidable acquaintance of mine who dwells there, and he would have reasons aplenty to distrust things of iron that fly. His name is Gwaihir, chiefest and greatest of the Eagles of this Age, and though he shares our kin's hatred for evil and wicked things, he would harbour little love for those who would trespass upon his skies without leave.”  
  
At once Nagato's eyelid twitched. “E-eagle?” exclaimed Nagato. “But...” The word 'How' died on her lip: Elrond had begun speaking once more before she could make her objection known.  
  
“Yes, the eagles of the North are fast friends and fearsome foes, who have come to the aid of my kin on numberless occasions and thwarted the servants of the Shadow about equally as often,” said Elrond. “I am, of course, not saying that it could be them who attacked your 'planes' nor am I insinuating they are meant to do so out of malice. All the same theirs is a noble and mighty kind, and your 'recons' had better give his kin a wide berth lest there be trouble – if indeed there had not been already.”  
  
“I see.” said Nagato. Bubbling beneath her surface was some sort of injured pride: had any of the IJN captains during the war heard their fighter planes might have been brought down by _eagles_ of all things, there would have been more than one _seppuku_ out of shame. Nagato wasn't one of the Navy's captains during the war, but _still_.  
  
“What are the odds it wasn't been the... the eagles?” said Nagato.  
  
“There are naught there, high up the Misty Mountains, but for goblin-folks and their cruel designs,” said Elrond. “And if, perchance, the goblins had learnt how to shoot down your flying contraptions with such ease, then there would be little we could do but hold fast in Imladris and hold out for _hope_.”  
  
For a while Nagato sat still in her place. _So it is_ eagles _after all, right?_ It was only through great focus that she reined it in, and made her voice unchanged. There was a time for _pride_ and this certainly wasn't it.  
  
“If it had been these... eagles, like you said,” she finally said. “what should we do?”  
  
“You have yet to earn their trust,” said Elrond. “And the eagles as a rule do not trust easily: they have enemies not just among the evil and wicked folks, but also some of the otherwise decent peoples who had visited war upon them for a perceived slight or another.”  
  
“If we wish to make peace with them, what should we do?”  
  
Now Elrond looked long into Nagato's eyes: so long, the battleship was starting to feel quite uncomfortable. Finally he sat upright and straightened the sleeve of his robe. “A chance would come to you soon, I daresay,” said Elrond, “and provided you stay true, they would make peace with you and abet you in a grand manner..”  
  
There was half a dictionary Nagato could have thrown at Elrond at that statement. Cryptic. Unhelpful. Unsincere. Charlatan. She, of course, said none of the above because she was Nagato and the Ambassador Ship took her responsibilities very seriously.  
  
“We would conduct further investigations of our own,” she said simply. “All the same, thank you, sir, for your assistance.” She paused. “As for the matter of your son and assistant, I would ask the Admiral for permission at once.”  
  
“Thank you, my lady Nagato,” said Elrond. “They would indeed be quite happy to hear.”  
  
Then she saluted him, turned around, and walked back into the hallway. Just as the door to the porch closed behind her, she heard a very familiar voice ringing out in a room nearby. A very recently familiar voice, to be exact.  
  
So Nagato took a detour, and saw – who else but the offending son-of-Elrond?  
  
He was singing – with a harp in hand that he plucked with professional aplomb. Not to disparage his singing – because he was an elf and at the end of the day supposed to be amazing at this sort of thing – but Nagato's eyes were more on the small animals that had gathered around him. Birds were gathering at the window-sill where he sat, and _the same squirrel was still balancing on his shoulder._  
  
There was no way he couldn't hear her footsteps. And yet he'd waited until he'd finished that song he was singing before he turned around.  
  
“Oh, my lady Nagato!” he said. “How was your business with _Ada_ , if I may?”  
  
“It is... fine. Settled. Handled,” the battleship said. “A-all the same, thank you, Elladan-san.”  
  
Elladan grinned. “Me? I beg your pardon, my dear lady,” he said. “I have done nothing of service but to sing and bring joy to the little dwellers of these woods.”  
  
The squirrel was _still_ perched on his shoulder and _oh all heavens forgive her if this would go on Nagato's boiler would malfunction._  
  
Without waiting for an answer, Elladan stood up from his seat. He straightened his robe, as though nothing was wrong. His harp under one arm, he stretched the other arm out – the squirrel at once ran from his shoulder to the tip of his middle finger, then leaped out of the open window onto a branch jutting just outside.  
  
“At any rate, I wish you a good day, my lady Nagato,” he said, and there was a ghost of a smile on his face that seemed to say, _I know your secret_.  
  
Or, or, or, perhaps, living among elves for weeks on end had made Nagato paranoid. She honestly couldn't tell.  
  
Again, squirrel.


	11. Chapter 11

**PART THE ELEVENTH**   
  
**IN WHICH THE BUCKY EXPEDITION FLEET RAN INTO A WAYWARD FAIRY**

  
  
  
Kongou yawned, stretched and looked about.  
  
The smell of damp grass was everywhere: the dew was heavy last night, and the sun hadn't even risen. Yuudachi and Mutsuki were soundly asleep, the former sprawled on her camping sheet in an extremely unladylike pose, the latter curled up and muttering something about W-Island that made Kongou shudder.  
  
So began the fourth day of the merry expedition of the merry Bucky Fleet that originally didn't have Kongou's name on it. The campfire was still cracking on the dirt, and her throat was crying out for black tea. She swallowed dryly. _If there isn't tea wherever this_ Bree _place is there'd be hell to pay._  
  
Kongou stood up, stretched again, and looked to the camping-sheet on her right. Correction: the _empty_ camping sheet. Bucky had been up and awake now, sitting by the crackling fire, checking their supplies _yet again_. The last time she went over the stock was before they curled themselves up in their sheets just last night!  
  
Kongou gave herself a smile, and crept behind Bucky. She had half a mind to do one of her _BUUURNING LOOVE_ skit, or at least pinching her little flagship and wrap her flustered anxious face into a cuddle. Then again, her more mature self decided, doing so would probably result in a scream that would wake up every ship, fairy, man and beast within a mile. _And that would be terrible._  
  
“Hey, Bucky!” she said softly.  
  
“Ah, Kongou-san!” came her response – jerky and almost too loud. Yuudachi was stirring... and then went back to snoring after a _poi_.  
  
Now Bucky swung around, and there was a very deep blush on her face. She hadn't spoken to Kongou much – or at all – since the expedition began. Kongou wouldn't say it out loud, but never take her for a fool: Bucky must have spent the greater part of this happy expedition _dreading_ something horrible would happen.  
  
In hindsight, her cute thoughtful _kouhai_ should have expected this. There was no way _Kongou_ wouldn't want in on what looked like a seemingly exciting and probably dangerous adventure, and neither Kirishima nor the Admiral was going to dissuade her. Especially not Kirishima.  
  
It hadn't begin very well, with an argument (or Bucky's very adorable attempt at one) and a 'what could possibly go wrong'. Then again, so had most thing that had with Kongou butting in and say “I want in!” out of the blue. Theirs was a _four-_ ship expedition now, and the destroyers had better live with it.  
  
“Still mad at me, Bucky?” she said.  
  
Bucky stared at the fire. Then she turned up, and shook her head. She stared at Kongou and suddenly looked like she'd put on a hat with Secretary Ship written on it.  
  
“But I still think it's unwise for you to be here, Kongou-san,” she said, then looked away. Her lips were now pressed into a thin line.  
  
There went her overly serious, overly anxious self again, and Kongou wouldn't stand by that. She patted Bucky on the head, eliciting a barely audible ' _Nnng!'._  
  
“Who's going to take responsibility if I rust myself down to my inner hull out of boredom?” she said.  
  
“Y-you aren't going to,” said Bucky weakly. “You're _battleship_ , Kongou- _san_. There's greater things for you to do, aren't there?”  
  
“Just hear yourself out, Bucky,” said Kongou. “When's the last time we needed some battleship-sized guns in this world?”  
  
“Still-”  
  
Now Kongou's palm went from Bucky's head to her shoulder. “Relax, relax!” she said. “You've been my flagship for a while, haven't you? Don't worry, I'll follow any command you give... except telling me to get back to base, because sure as heck I'm not doing that.”  
  
There was a rhythmic thumping under Kongou's fingers that could only be explained as Bucky's boilers going _sliiightly_ out of control.  
  
“I'm-I'm happy you're here, Kongou-san,” she finally said. "Although-"  
  
Kongou quickly pinned her finger on Bucky's lips. “I know, Bucky. No need to say more about that!” she said – in her high-pitched English. “You know what, I'll lend you a hand.”  
  
They'd barely finished packing up the rest of the supplies when the other destroyers woke up. First came Yuudachi, yawning and stretching and dragging herself to her feet with teary eyes. Then came Mutsuki: shuddering from cold (or an imagined horror) and not moving for a full five minutes before standing up and wiping her eyes on her sleeve.  
  
“Did I miss anything, _poi_?” she said.  
  
“Cleanup duty,” said Kongou, and pushed the small traveling bag with “ _Yuudachi_ ” written on it in _katakana_ into her arms. Then she threw her one of the three _katana_ in their stock. Tenryuu wouldn't like them borrowing her best toys, sure; but with the district-wide proscription against using naval artillery on man-sized, land-based targets, this was more than good enough.  
  
Mutsuki stood up and picked up her own bag and her own sword. Bucky's was already strapped to her waist.  
  
Kongou didn't have a sword. She did, however, have her fists and a nice _miko_ dress. _Three samurai and one_ _priestess on the scenic route_ , she thought, and chuckled at her own imagination.  
  
Now the four ships threw over themselves four raggedly coats – warm and serviceable as a disguise though slightly itchy – and trussed their respective share of luggage up over their bikes. Then, with a piece of bread between their lips each, the four ships-on-land began the journey of the day.  


***

  
It was a nice, crisp day with a lot of sunlight and life on either side of the road. They'd been passing through a section of the road well-shaded by trees on the one side and cresting hills on the other, past a shallow brook or two, then along a beaten path that snaked through the edge of the wood. At a point Yuudachi even started singing – it was one of Naka's songs – and did such a, well, _remarkable_ job everyone else burst out in a giggle.  
  
But then came the afternoon. Hardly had the sun passed through the mid-point in the sky than black clouds began to gather. Hardly two kilometers down the road later, thunder was rolling in from the horizon, accompanied by flashes of lightning across the sky. About a kilometer later came the first raindrop, and another half a kilomater, the drizzle turned into an endless torrent.  
  
At first they weathered on: no ship worth their salt would fear a little rain. But their bikes weren't so cooperative. The road, it turned out, was not made for wheeled traffic on a rainy day; the dirt rapidly melting into musty ankle-deep mud.  
  
Soon it was impossible to cycle, and shortly after nearly impossible to drag the darned things along either.  
  
All the while the feeling under her feet made Kongou feel terribly uneasy. Water sloshing about beneath, mud everywhere, and a sensation of being _stuck_. It felt all too much like she was being beached – the next worst thing from actually sinking.  
  
At long last Mutsuki coughed. “Um... Shouldn't we rest until the rain stops?” she said.  
  
“I agree, _po~i_.” said  
  
“Let's just push a little more,” said Bucky. She pointed ahead: the wood that way seemed thicker, the trunks taller and the canopies of leaves broader.  
  
It was then that they began to catch a glimpse of a certain figure in the distance. There, behind the curtain of heavy rain, was an old man sitting on a very large rock. He was waiting, under the green canopy, untouched by the rain for the most part. His neck was craning about, looking towards their direction.  
  
Then when they'd drawn close enough to discern his figure from the watery grey all about him and saw his very large hat and patchwork-looking brown cloak that looked like it had been sewn together from so much tree-barls, he suddenly stood up and began waving his hands excitedly.  
  
“Why, hello there!” he shouted. “Travelers on the East-West Road, no?”  
  
The three destroyers at once reached for the weapons on their waist.  
  
“And who are _you_?” exclaimed Bucky.  
  
The old man jerked up. “Easy, easy now!” he hollered. “I'm not your enemy – or at least I hope I wouldn't be!”  
  
Yuudachi curled her lips. “Says the old man who jumps out at travelers in the rain out of the blue, _poi!_ ” she shouted  
  
“Alright, alright, that wasn't very wise of me,” said the old man, raising his hands and turning his empty palms towards them. Only when the destroyers' hands had finally inched away from the hilts oftheir sword did the old man sit back down on the boulder again. Now he gestured the fleet to come closer.  
  
Which they did, less because of the invitation and more because of the simple fact that there was less rain and mud where he was sitting.  
  
At this the old man chuckled. “Very well, very well!” he said. “I would want to start talking in friendly terms, but I thought you wouldn't stay your suspicion so easily.”  
  
Bucky and Yuudachi and Mutsuki exchanged looks.  
  
Finally Bucky set her sword-hand at her side again, and stepped forward. “We're listening,” she said.  
  
“Very good!” said the old man. “Now, here is my story: a common friend of ours had told me, on his way for one sort of errand of his or another, to keep an eye on any women-who-are-actually-ships who might cross my way.” At this his eyes twinkled at the whole fleet. “That would be you lasses, wouldn't it?”  
  
Bucky gulped. “I- we don't know what you're talking about,” she said. “You... must be mistaken-” At this her hand began to inch towards the sword at her side again.  
  
“Well, perhaps, if I had consumed certain sorts of recreational mushroom for the day, which I hadn't for quite a while now.” He chuckled heartily. “It _is_ in a way good humour seeing four particularly large ships trying to squeeze their way through a muddy rut on the forest-path while it rains cats and dogs!”  
  
Kongou put her hand on Bucky's shoulder. “Let me,” she said, and walked forward. She raised her hand up, grabbed a handy branch that jutted out from the tree overhead, and ripped it off the tree.  
  
“Well, so you know we're ships,” she said, and crushed the branch in her palm. “Sorry to say, old man, but we _really_ would appreciate if-” The large branch turned into dust in a chorus of crunching sound; the woodchip flowing to the muddy ground with the rainwater through her fingers. “-you would _not_ broadcast whatever it is you saw for the world to know.”  
  
But now the old man had steeled himself, and Kongou's attempt at intimidation didn't quite work as well as she thought it would have. “That is a given, my dear lasses,” he said. “Well, like I said, if you'd believe me, you are among friends, more so since I happen to know Gandalf and so do you-”  
  
“'Gandalf'?” exclaimed Mutsuki. “D-did you say _Gandalf_ , mister?”  
  
“Why, yes I did,” said the old man. “He's one of my Order, and quite a fair bit more robust than I am. Never was one to take an interest in the animals and herbs this deep in the forest, though.”  
  
“Did he pass through this way, sir?” asked Bucky.  
  
“Just shy of three days ago, he did,” said the old man. “He was in much of a hurry and didn't stop for tea; said he was to attend to one urgent sort of business or another in the far-country. He'd never learnt to slow down once matters he sees important come to a head.”  
  
“Oh yeah?” said Kongou. “And just how do we know we can trust you?”  
  
“An honest question, that is, and it deserves an honest answer!” said the old man. “As luck has it, we do share one other little friend, you and I. There's a little lass who's overjoyed to see you in person!”  
  
Then he lifted his very broad hat off his head.  
  
Kongou's lips twitched. Bucky gasped. Yuudachi went _poi_. Mutsuki left her bike to fall on the mud and ran forward with eyes glassy.  
  
On the crown of the old man's head, previously concealed from sight and rain underneath his large straw hat, was a fairy. An _injured_ pilot fairy, at that.  
  
Her pilot flak jacket (printed with an “A” in _katakana_ ) was torn at the left sleeve. Her right arm was trussed up in a makeshift sling of sticks and stained rags. Her whole body smelled very strongly of one sort of unidentified herb and mushroom or another, that was apparent despite the damp smell of wet grass and rooty dirt all about them.  
  
But she was, otherwise, unhurt and so very energetic.  
  
Now at the sight of their fleet, the fairy stood up on both legs and waved her intact arm, and blinked her little beady eyes. “ _Desu desu desu desu desu!_ ” she cried out very quickly - and between her squeaking and the raindrops Kongou could only make out " _Carrier Akagi, 2nd Recon Squadron_ " and something or other about a crash and an eagle.  
  
“That's alright, that's alright,” said Mutsuki, holding out both hands. “You're... you're safe now...”  
  
As if on cue the pilot-fairy jumped down into Mutsuki's outstretched palm and landed with a soft _plonk_. She scrambled to her feet, and gave as best of a salute as she could with one arm. “How did you-”  
  
Mutsuki's question was drowned out by another very, _very_ long string of incredibly excited _desu_.  
  
“How did you come across her?” asked Bucky.  
  
“A very large bird, so to speak, had brought her to me all the way from the Misty Mountains, for healing,” the old man said. “I admit I've got something of a reputation among avians in that business.”  
  
“You heal birds, _poi_?” asked Yuudachi. “That makes a bit more sense, _poi_.”  
  
“Now I don't know what the little lass _is_ , not with my assuredly limited wisdom,” said the old man. “But she'd survived making an enemy of _Gwaihir the Windlord_ himself, and that alone is worth some celebration!”  
  
Bucky gulped. “Gwaihir?”  
  
Yuudachi blinked. “The Wind-lord, _poi_?”  
  
“Ah, but of course you've never heard of the Great Eagles!” said the old man chastisingly. “Well, it can't be helped. Not many save the Wise know of the eyrie domain of the Great Eagles, much less the name of their Lord.”  
  
He slapped his hat back on his head.  
  
“But do pardon an old man for getting ahead of himself!” said the old man. “Radagast I am called, and any friend of Gandalf in these parts is a friend of mine – unless and until proven otherwise. And it would do me no good to have a friend of mine soaking in the rain when I've got a hut within walking distance! Come! Unless you are partial to drenching to the bones – a sentiment which, sadly, I do not quite like to share.”  
  
Kongou narrowed her eyes. “Now just hold on there a second – are you _honestly seriously_ inviting us into your _house_?” she said.  
  
Yuudachi nodded furiously “Doesn't that just scream _suspicious_ in sixteen languages, _poi_?”  
  
Mutsuki looked up from the excited fairy in her palm. “He didn't treat the poor girl badly,” she said. “I... I think we can trust him.”  
  
Bucky shook her head. “I don't know about that...”  
  
She wheeled towards the old man again. “Thanks for the offer, Radagast- _san_ ,” she said cautiously. “I-I mean, we wouldn't like to impose too much, you've done us a huge favor with the fairy already-” Her hand had left the hilt of her sword, but only just.  
  
The old man only put his hat back and smiled. He stood up and waved his hand about in an arcane sign. “There's tea and scones-” he began.  
  
A _ting_ went off inside Kongou. “Did you say,” she said, “ _tea and scones_?”  
  
It was all she could do not to sound _too_ ravenous, and even then everyone with half a functional brain could have deduced the rest from how sparkling her eyes had gone.  
  
“Tea and scones,” said the old man with a sly nod, “meant for Gandalf and what company of his, and I'd hate to let it come to waste in his absence.”  
  
Her hand had squeezed around Bucky's shoulder before Kongou realized what she'd been doing.  
  
Then Mutsuki piped up. “Would you tell us... would you tell us about how the fairy got here?” she said. “And what exactly happened to her?”  
  
“That _is_ my intention, my dear lass,” said Radagast. “There are a couple other things, too, that Gandalf had thought you might like to know.”  
  
“I want a rest, too, _poi_ ,” said Yuudachi.  
  
Poor Bucky, thought Kongou, looking so torn up as she tried to make up her mind what to do now.  
  
“Alright,” said Bucky with a sigh, “I guess that means we're in your care... for now.”  
  
And Kongou suddenly felt like joining her cadre of bridge-fairy for a small victory dance.  


***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Radagast doesn't come with a bird-poop trail down his cheek because WTF Peter Jackson.


	12. Chapter 12

**PART THE TWELFTH**   
  
**IN WHICH KONGOU SLANDERED A HEAVY CRUISER**   
  
**AND MUTSUKI RECEIVED A GRIM REMINDER**

  
  
  
The forest-floor was muddy and drenched. Water sloshed beneath Mutsuki's feet, and once every few steps there would be a bit of root sticking out from the dirt like a trap.  
  
Mutsuki shivered in the howling wind. Fubuki was pushing on with her grim face and no complaint at all. Kongou was smiling and animate. The only sound to come from Yuudachi were the splashes of her steps and a “ _poi_ ” once every so often.  
  
Finally they arrived at a small clearing in the wood. The rain had only grown heavier now, and there was no light from above save for the occasional lightning. Now the wizard looked around, bright and spirited, as though he had been untouched by the rain – or not at all concerned by it.  
  
“Ah, here we are,” he said, and gestured towards the odd structure to the Southern side of the clearing.  
  
Their proposed shelter was an oddly-shaped hut-shack, with a roof made of sackcloth stretched between four very large trees half dozen meters apart. The walls had been put together by an assortment of sticks and woven leaves and burlap. There was something particularly _impossible_ about the hut – as if it had been propped up by some forces other than pure applied physics.  
  
There was ample space to put their bikes, and Mutsuki couldn't have been more thankful for Fubuki's foresight having picked a waterproof bag for them all.  
  
He disappeared through the doorway and come back out with five ragged towels that carried the pungent smell of a closet full of unknown and indistinguishable herbs. One went to each of them with a toss, and the last towel he dropped unceremoniously at the door for the girls to step on. Not hotel-standard, sure, but this deep into the wilderness this was as good as they could ever get.  
  
“Uh-” said Fubuki with a shiver. “Thank you, Radagast-san, but... ”  
  
“I insist,” said the wizard. “Dry yourselves, lasses. Wouldn't want you to trail water all over my hut.”  
  
What could they have done but do as they were told, and follow him inside?  
  
For what seemed to be a semi-permanent pitched hut the place was surprisingly spacious. There was enough space for ten to lie down and stretch. There was a very large rug of tree-bark sewn together by threads of wild ropes. There was a large kettle suspended on a tripod over a fireplace lined with small pieces of stone. There was a hammock in the far corner, hung to two large tree-trunks – where the wizard slept, no doubt.  
  
“Now let me apologize,” said Radagast. “This dwelling-hut isn't too hospitable. It is, after all, not my real home – I dwell far over the Misty Mountains, in Rhosgobel where the rabbits are particularly swift and loyal. I've only thrown it together over a couple days with some help from my many little friends, of course – just in time for two little lasses who needed treatment.”  
  
“You mean... there is another injured fairy around?” asked Mutsuki.  
  
The wizard nodded. “Oh, yes, there's another one,” he said, and thumbed towards a small table made of a single, large tree stump at the corner of the shack. “Now do shush – the poor lass' a-sleeping.”  
  
Mutsuki drew closer, and saw on the table a very tiny bed. A very savaged fairy lay wrapped in a layer of fairy-sized blanket: bruised cheeks, cut forehead, a strip of bandage wrapping over her shoulder blade. Her tiny chest heaved beneath the blanket with each mumble of “ _desu_ ”.  
  
It was heartbreaking.  
  
“Here she is,” said the old man, “Now I am not too sure how her anatomy differs from a bird or a Man, but for what I know she's going to live unless...” He placed his finger next to her mouth – opening and closing with every ragged breath. He smiled mirthfully. “Well, unless nothing. She _will_ live, or I'm not Radagast the Brown!”  
  
Fubuki's hand was curling into a fist. “What _exactly_ had happened to them?” she said.  
  
If the wizard saw her strangely bellicose gesture, he paid it no mind. He only shook his head ruefully.  
  
“Alas, I know not the detail, but for the fact that these lasses ran into the Eagles at their most territorial and terrible,” he said. “The Eagle who brought them to me spoke of terribly noisy birds of steel that violated the Windlord's domains without leave. In their anger the eagles had struck down the impudent iron birds – severed them wings from body with their talons!”  
  
Here he chopped and slashed his hands into the air, his breath hissing through his teeth for emphasis. He was doing such a good job, in fact, that Mutsuki began to shudder and so did Yuudachi right after.  
  
Then his gaze softened. “But these two tiny lasses fell out of them, and the Eagles saved them from certain death out of compassion. For they knew not if they were controlling the beast, or were enthralled by them, and either way Gwaihir is not without kindness. But nurse them he could not; for the Great Eagles neither grew nor kept herbs, and their wisdom did not extend to the art of healing.”  
  
He now left the bed on the table, and gestured them to sit down next to the fireplace.  
  
“It would have been much easier for the Eagles had I been home.” he said. “But alas, I'd moved cross the mountains some time ago, for I much desired to seek Gandalf's counsel over a matter of terrible importance – and as a rule Gandalf would not cross the Misty Mountains unless he has absolute need to. So they'd had to ferry the poor things all the way over the Mountains, and that couldn't have done very good for their wellness!”  
  
The pilot-fairy, now joining the rest of Mutsuki's crew, was going on and on and on about how flying inside the talons of a giant eagle wasn't something she was keen on doing any time soon.  
  
Now Yuudachi was just about finished with drying her hair. “How did you know the fairies are with us, _poi_?”  
  
“They told me,” said the wizard. “The one willingly, the other in her dreamless coma.” He thumbed towards the fairy's sick bed. “Never seems quite able to stop talking, awake or not.”  
  
Yuudachi dropped her towel and her jaw. “You speak _fairy, poi_?”  
  
“Never discount a wizard who is well-learnt in his chosen expertise!” said Radagast proudly. “At any rate, the poor lass was well and truly delirious – been mumbling my ears off about how she's failed the _Rising Sun_ and this _Red-Castle_ and how she's a terrible excuse for a pilot and how she should go die in a bout of _divine wind_.” Here he shrugged both shoulders. “Something or other – like I said, the poor thing was delirious.”  
  
Now his kettle was whistling on the tripod over the fireplace. He turned around towards what looked like a dining-kitchen table made of a very round wheel of stone, and carried back four stone cups on four stone plates, and finally a larger plate piled with a golden-brown pastry.  
  
His scones turned out to be far less of a delicacy than it sounded; but destroyers were quick to hunger and a battleship far more so. The plate was empty before the first round of tea.  
  
There was something to be said about the incredibly calming effect of tea and a warm fire and some food to the weary traveler. Not having to trawl in mud helped, too.  
  
Mutsuki cupped the mug in both hands. “I don't understand, Radagast-san,” she said. “Did Gandalf-san make you wait for us?”  
  
“Yes, and no.” said the old man. “Yes, because Gandalf _did_ talk much about you and what he thinks you are and you should do. And I say, he was impressed, though not quite impressed as he is of the little men who dwell way to the West.” He picked up the teapot and began to refill their teacups. “At any rate, if you showed up _after_ him by more than a week, he said, then you'd have already been late for the big party he's planning.”  
  
He paused, and stared long before the flame.  
  
“And no, because I have rarely been party to his plans,” he finally said. “Though I have curiosities of my own, that has to do with birds and herbs and plants and you've already tangled yourself into the businesses of the Eagles – and therefore with mine. In any case, if you are looking for him, I would like to offer my hospitality – and if what I get in exchange is a conversation, that would be a fair enough trade.”  
  
“But we aren't here to look for him,” said Fubuki.  
  
“Surely?” said Radagast. “Because Gandalf was quite sure that at least some of you... Ship-daughter, that's right, that's how he calls you – that you'd heed his invitation and come join this adventure he was planning.”  
  
“I've been given express order _not_ to actively look for him,” stressed Fubuki. “More than that I'm... I'm not authorized to say.”  
  
“But he could be counting on a coincidence, _poi_?” said Yuudachi. “There's only one way from here to Bree, isn't it, _poi_?”  
  
“Perhaps, perhaps not, we would never know – or at least I wouldn't,” said Radagast. “You know what he usually says, a wizard is never late, nor is he early; he arrives exactly when he is meant to.”  
  
Yuudachi had _so curious_ written all over her face. “What's the adventure about, _poi_?”  
  
“Of that he did not speak openly,” said Radagast darkly. “But something very great is afoot – and I don't mean you lasses, though of course he could have meant you, too. Gandalf has a love to speak in riddles even to his fellows sometimes.”  
  
Now Kongou lifted her eyes off her teacup and there was a flash in her eyes.  
  
“Does this adventure thing have anything to do with a chap called Thorin by any chance?” she said.  
  
Radagast's cup clattered on his plate.  
  
“Thorin!” he cried. “Not the Thorin who earnt his fame in the war between orcs and dwarves a century ago? Not the Thorin whose sire and grandsire both perished in the unknown shadow? Not Thorin Oakenshield, the one who would have been King Under the Mountain save for the fact that his throne exist now no more?” He drew closer to the fire – and to Kongou who was opposite to him from it. “How much do you know about this business?”  
  
The flickering flame, too, had draped Kongou's face in its orange hue, and most – though not entirely all – semblance of her usual playfulness was gone.  
  
“Yeah, that sounds like him all right,” she said. “Royalty in exile, king with no crown, that sort of thing.” There was a disdainful smirk on her face. “Seems like your Gandalf wants us to help him get his throne back; kind of cute, that is, in a romantic novel kind of way. Until he started talking about how rich and profitable the payment would be if we'd send help _quickly_.”  
  
At this Kongou made a face. “Let's say some people the old man _really_ shouldn't have offended had been well and truly _pissed_. So I say, well, _Blimey_ , _ne_?” she said. And then her voice turned snappy again. “Anyway, excellent tea, old man! More, more, more?”  
  
The wizard's face became more animate. “Tea! Of course, there's plenty to go around!” and passed her the jar of honey for good measure.  
  
He waited while Kongou merrily poured herself another mug. His face was strained in a dreadful sort of pensiveness.  
  
“But if you speak true, then it is ironic indeed!” he said. “Gandalf is not one to hang gold like a prize for those who would follow him; he'd rather spur them on with hope and curiosity and noble dreams. Perhaps he had been around dwarves for too long of late.” Here his voice was distressingly bitter. “Dwarves! I am not overly fond of dwarves, and none too shy to admit it. Their trust for others is too small, and their greed for material things too great.”  
  
“Oh, great,” said Kongou.  
  
“At any rate Gandalf has never acted without wisdom: he is a wizard far wiser than I am, and concerned with things far greater. And I... well, I've trusted him for many lifetimes of Man, and shall continue to do so, till our eventual rest claims us in one way or another. Let us hope he has not erred, and denied our cause of allies.”  
  
“But all's not lost, _poi_. You saved two of Akagi's fairies she must have thought killed,” Yuudachi pointed out. “The only way you could have made her more grateful is somehow delivering her a lifetime supply of all-flavor ice-cream with free wafers, toppings and syrups included, _poi_!”  
  
The wizard straightened his posture, and for a while again seemed to have found solace in the roaring flame in the fireplace. “Then I must ask you: If you do run into Gandalf's expedition, as is often the case with his plans and designs,” he said. “what will you do?”  
  
Meanwhile, Kongou was helping herself – speedily. More tea. More honey. A very long sip. Mutsuki would never quite understand how Kongou could drain tea so quickly while still looking _elegant_ , but there she was.  
  
“I'd tag along,” she said at the end of the cup.  
  
“K-Kongou-san?” exclaimed Fubuki. “W-we've got our orders, right? Right?”  
  
Kongou adjusted her hair-antennae and squeezed Fubuki's shoulder to a soft “Ow”.  
  
“Patience, Bucky. I mean, I'd tag along while we're on the same path.” she said. “For one thing, it's safer traveling with a wizard than without. Simple mathematics. And for the other... We might not be interested in helping a dwarf Prince Charming, but we're still interested in getting to know him, learning how well or unwell he's doing with his quest, and knowing whether he'd suddenly get the _very brilliant_ idea that attacking a naval district full of fleetgirls would be profitable.”  
  
Now Kongou made a show of fluttering her eyelashes. “And, and, and! If the dwarf-prince happens to be unmarried and particularly good-looking, I might know someone who'd be in an uproar to _get to_ _know_ him.”  
  
At this Mutsuki's face went so red she felt like burning. Fubuki was hiding her face inside her palms. Yuudachi was just putting her finger on her lip with a confused ' _poi_?'. The wizard's face was twisted in an odd way, like he was not sure if he should laugh or scowl or take offense.  
  
“Truly,” he said incredulously.  
  
Kongou waved her hand. “I'm kidding,” she said without changing tone.  
  
Another cup – at which point Kongou shook the teapot disappointedly. It sounded like it was emptied down to the dredges.  
  
“Then you would do well to be very careful,” the wizard said. “Thorin Oakenshield is a hunted dwarf, that I am quite sure, though I know yet by whom.”  
  
At this Kongou chuckled. “Eh? Hunted?” she said. “Hey, that would make this business _not boring_ for once.”  
  
At once Radagast's face turned fierce.  
  
“All the same you don't want to draw so much attention to yourself,” he said darkly. “Your powers may be great – enough to challenge the deadliest of Elf-banes who exist still in this twilight age – but do you, or do you not, want to remain unnoticed instead? After all-” Here his voice softened, but ominous it remained still. “An Oliphaunt is in greater danger not in spite of its size and might, but rather _because_ of it.”  
  
“Then if you were us, Radagast-san, what would you do?” asked Fubuki.  
  
“If you wish not to have any part in Gandalf's business,” he said. “then stay to the road, keep your eyes on your task, and ask not too many questions! The folks in Bree-land and beyond do not witness very often curious folks like you, but stay quiet enough and even they would take your presence for granted.”  
  
Another long bout of silence – much longer than the previous – crossed the room.  
  
“But if you do wish to abet him – and I say you should though not entirely because of my kinship with him – then speak twice as softly and tread with thrice the care, and refrain from approaching the dwarves too closely. They are not used to the friendship of outsiders and will meet you with distrust, for one, and for the other you would want their enemies to remain well ignorant of what you _can_ do.”  
  
Then the room fell into silence again – for the day. The rest of the evening passed in great pensiveness, and, apart from his invitation that the fleet should board in his hut, the wizard said nothing more of importance.  
  
But Mutsuki noted, Fubuki was writing down everything she heard – or very nearly everything. If the wizard saw her taking notes without leave, he never said anything.  


***

  
Unlike normal, the next day Mutsuki was the first to rise. Next to her, Kongou and Yuudachi was having a competition as to who would have the least ladylike sleeping posture – which Yuudachi won, because at least Kongou wasn't drooling. Fubuki was wrapping herself around her notebook – which she'd stayed up late to pen down everything she thought needed penning. And the wizard had left his hammock and the tent at that.  
  
But he had not gone far: No sooner had Mutsuki lifted up the tent-flap than she saw the old wizard standing there in the middle of the clearing, and many a bird were circling about him, some far above, others virtually perched on his shoulders.  
  
At the sound of her steps, the bitds – as were their wont – at once took to the sky. The wizard turned around, and waved at her in acknowledgement.  
  
“Good morning, Radagast-san,” she said with a deep bow.  
  
“A good morning indeed,” he said. “Now I hope you've well recovered – you looked fatigued last night; fatigued and so very quiet.”  
  
“I'm sorry,” said Mutsuki with a long bow. “I'm... fine now, I think.” Then she stared long at the ground beneath her feet. “Should I have said anything more, Radagast-san?”  
  
“Not if you did not wish to,” said the wizard. “But I can't help but wonder if you have matters that trouble you very greatly. Your name is Mutsuki, correct? Then Gandalf had spoken well of you: quite fondly and not without concern.”  
  
She squeezed the hem of her skirt. “Did he say anything _specifically_? About me?”  
  
It was simple curiosity: the wizard's presence that time had been overwhelming, and the vestige of that red light was within her still.  
  
“He said he felt you'd needed hope, but that for great tragedies hope alone solves little,” said Radagast. “I am, unfortunately, not so wise as he is, nor so arrogant as to think I could assume why. Though if I could make an educated guess... I've seen many like you, among the Men and elves who walk the world. Arda has ever been a place of great personal losses.”  
  
“Really.” She giggled bitterly. “What do you think I should do, Radagast-san?”  
  
“I'm sorry,” he said. “It is not I, that you should go to for counsel, for such is not my domain.”  
  
“I see,” said Mutsuki. "That's alright, I guess..."  
  
“At any rate,” the wizard said, “If it is an answer you want, then I could mayhaps try: find a purpose in the future, and know that there is aspects of Arda Unmarred in the Arda Marred in which we live. Look for meaning in the small things, small acts of kindness.” He shook his head in shame. “Like I said: I am ill suited to giving advice, who have spent my days among roots and birds.”  
  
Mutsuki only smiled, because that had been her way to cope for a while now.  
  
But then the old man clapped his hands, as if just having recalled something particularly important. “Still,” he said. “Perhaps I can help you in another way.”  
  
He gestured her to follow him further into the clearing.  
  
Now the rain outside had stopped, and though the grass was wet and the dirt had turned into mud. The first light of the sun had emerged through the canopy, and the hut's roof had turned amber-gold under its shine.  
  
Then the wizard looked to the sky and whistled.  
  
A tiny bird descended from the forest roof: small enough to stand inside Mutsuki's cupped palms. It was a crimson-breasted robin: agile and swift and so, so curious-looking. It landed on the back of the wizard's palm, and at once began singing.  
  
Radagast raised the bird to his face, and began to whisper in a language that sounded not unlike the tweeting of birds.  
  
“Is he yours?” asked Mutsuki.  
  
“She,” corrected the wizard. “And the answer is no, I do not own her, nor does anyone but herself,” he said. “All the same she would be your friend as she is mine: and barring great misfortunes she shall find you a good way to Bree in good time. And beyond, if that is where you must go.”  
  
“Does she have a name?”  
  
The wizard nodded approvingly. “She was last of a clutch of delightful hatchlings birthed last February and raised beneath my hat,” he said. “Her brothers and sisters had all flown away to distant skies save her. So February I named her, that she was born in the month but shall be good for all year, every year, till she grows too old to take to the skies.”  
  
February. February.  
  
February.  
  
_February._  
  
Something broke inside Mutsuki. She bit down on her lips. _Don't cry... Don't cry... Don't cry..._  
  
“Would you travel with me?”  
  
The bird looked at Mutsuki like she was an exceedingly strange object. She tweeted, and the wizard tweeted back, and then she turned to gaze at Mutsuki again. At long last she hopped off the back of Radagast's palm and flew to Mutsuki's shoulder – and started to peck on the fabric of her shirt.  
  
“Ah, splendid, most splendid!” said Radagast. “Do play nice and take care of her, and she'll take care of you.” His language changed to that of birds and eagles, and then back to what Mutsuki could understand again. “And I do mean the both of you.”  
  
What could Mutsuki do but smile back, though deep inside she wanted to laugh and cry at the same time?  
  
_Not that this wizard would ever know..._  


***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- For those who don't speak Japanese, "Kisaragi" is literally "February".


	13. Chapter 13

**PART THE THIRTEENTH**  
  
**IN WHICH THE BUCKYFLEET CRASHED HEADFIRST INTO BREE-CULTURE**

_  
_

 

_(AKA, In which Cute Shipgirls Doing Cute Shipgirl Things is the order of the day)_

  
Mutsuki's new bird-friend quickly found itself a place in the fleet, and not just as a spotter. The tweeting of the robin made the road less lonesome and more animate, and brought more than a few smiles across the fleet.  
  
Except whenever they'd asked Mutsuki where the bird came from, or what her name is, she'd only shake her head and give them one of those “I'm not telling” smile.  
  
Yuudachi had looked on, curious as she always was, but decided she would ask no question. It was a tacit agreement among the fleet: it was not an important matter what a bird's name was as long as it was helpful and kept morale high. Deep inside, though, she thought she knew why.  
  
In a week's time they'd crossed the muddy, dirty part of the road with naught but woodland and rolling hills on either side. In another half-week, they'd now come across real signs of life: little hamlets of little cabins along the roadside, farmhands tilling rows of corn and wheat, vast meadows full of fluffy sheep and more than a few cows grazing and gallivanting about. There were no more incidents, save for one time Yuudachi's bike broke its chain – and even then, never underestimate what four determined warships and a few hundred fairies could accomplish in unison.  
  
For the last few days of the journey the road had cut an uncomfortable detour around a very large swamp: the smell of dampness and things decomposing under the mud wafted far further than the fleet was comfortable with. A variety of midges and mosquitoes flew out from the muddy waters, and like dive-bombers harassed the fleet without end. Except, as the insects had unfortunately found out: against ironclad fleetgirls insect stingers were a poor substitute for actual torpedoes and bombs when they had half a mind to put their defenses to bear.  
  
But the uncomfortable journey, at any rate, didn't take too long. It was a couple days before they saw (and smelled) the last of mud and dampness. Now they came across a land far greener and more lively than the wilderness they had been through. Before them now lay a broad country, yellow-gold with wheat and ears of corn beneath the deep blue sky.  
  
There were folks about now, and curiously diverse at that. There were brown-haired men, not exactly tall but quite muscular and toughened by hard labor. There were “men”, tall as a PT-girl at most, so round and hairy-footed, and never to be found with shoes (the first one they saw frightened Mutsuki into stammering). There were other, gruffer sorts of men, quite short but built like rocks (Yuudachi wondered if they were built _of_ rocks, even).  
  
Kongou wasted no time striking up conversation with as many as she could. It might be something in the air that might have made her feel right at home. She went “Aye, old chum, where to for a good old mug?” with a stout, short bearded fellow (“He's a dwarf,” she said after he'd waved them goodbye). With a round, rolling tiny little man wearing a dandy shirt with brass buttons all over, she bowed and put up a vigorous “Well, my dear sir, that's a marvelous country you've got here!” (“That's a hobbit,” she kindly noted right afterwards). And with a burly-looking man guiding his fluffy herd home, she just gave a very broad smile and inquired after his sheep, which apparently was the right way to talk to that sort of fellow.  
  
In fact, so _sociable_ and normal-sounding she was, that by the time they'd went up along the road to the gate of the little village on the wayside (“Welcome to Bree-land, mind your manners lasses,” introduced a helpful local) Mutsuki was smiling and Yuudachi was excited and Fubuki was so, so _paranoid_ (as in, 'who are you and what have you done to Kongou- _san_ ' paranoid).  
  
“I just know, alright?” she said with an oh-so-bright smile, and pointed to her head and her bridge-fairies within, who were very nearly all of one voice – a chorus of happy and proud “ _Dess!_ ”. Kongou might have had a _lot_ of advantages in other ways as a fast battleship, but having a share of bridge-fairies who just _knew_ this sort of thing was outright _unfair_...  
  
Hardly had they came through the simple village gate when Fubuki's face fell, her disappointment palpable.  
  
This place was no industrial center. They should have expected as much, to be fair. The only industries available at all were cottage industries. Cheese. Butter. Sausages. A baker or two. A potter on one end of the village, a weaver at the other, and a carpenter and maker of household miscellanies in between. They'd ran into a couple of really short, really broad, thickly-bearded chaps on the way back, carrying lugging small bags of coal and ore – and right at the side of the village against the hillside was a small smithy churning out a lot of black smoke.  
  
In a sense it was so peaceful. Some of her fairies who retained memories of the time before Japan became a great power were elated. This was just like home, except with oak instead of bamboo, cattle rather than fish, and more dairy than any traditional lactose-intolerant Japanese would know what to do with.  
  
But Fubuki, being Fubuki, was too busy looking around for information and writing things down in her travel-log that not even the bright afternoon sun could make the anxious scowl on her face fade any. At once she came after the nearest man her size, clear her throat, and began firing away.  
  
“Um, excuse me, mister?” she asked. “Is there any place around here where we could find a market?”  
  
“Nope, no market here, 'cept for Periwinkle's butchery and Milkthistle's bakehouse,” said the man with an amused look. “You looking to peddle stuff, you're outta luck.”  
  
Fubuki blinked. “But I thought Bree has a good-sized market, doesn't it?”  
  
“Aye, not from about here, eh, lass?” He pointed to the road that went through the little village and out in the Northwest. “That's 'bout an hour on foot that-a-way to Bree, over the hill – not that 'far away'.” He chuckled at his own joke.  
  
Fubuki's blinking grew more rapid, and her face redder. “W-wait, so this _isn't_ Bree?”  
  
“Well, like we say 'round these parts,” said the man, “it ain't Bree till you's seen the shine off the roof of that place, the Prancing Pony.” He wagged his curled finger at the hilltop. “Got a market proper there if you got to sell.”  
  
By the time he finished with his giving direction and walked away with a hearty laugh, Fubuki was well on her way to engage 'scuttle-me-now' mode, it took Kongou's engine to tow her out of the spot.

***

  
It turned out that Bree, when they finally got to the other side of the hill and at the gate with the town's name helpfully painted on it, wasn't all that either. The town did have a fine-looking thicket fence from one part of the hill to the other, watch-posts and everything. And yet it was all Yuudachi could do not to shudder at how well it would possibly burn given a nice barrage of flammable munitions.  
  
The first place they stopped, naturally, was the town inn. For one thing, Kongou had insisted (“What kind of adventurer would _not_ visit the tavern first thing in the morning?” she said). For the other, the building was kind of _right there_ and stood out so much it could hardly be missed: Sign painted white with a fancy rearing pony. Large, solid, three-storied stone building with lots of nice windows. The smell of things constantly being cooked wafting from the many ground-floor air gaps. And of course, the advertisement by the Staddle-farmer just before.  
  
The first thing they saw entering the door at the side of the archway was a large man standing behind a counter, seemingly polishing the counter-top until it was sparkling clean – if only because there seemed nothing else to do in their sleepy town. The man, very portly and the proud owner of a massive mustache, perked up at once as the Fubuki fleet ushered in through the doorway.  
  
“Come in, come in!” he hollered. “A customer, or four, look at that! Four women from afar, no doubt! Well, where have I heard it?” he said. “Definitely not something happening everyday, or I'm not Barnabas Butterbur!”  
  
Fubuki stepped forward – awkwardly. “Um... are you the innkeeper, sir? Can we get a room or-”  
  
“Yes, and yes, and for whatever that third thing is you have in mind (which I thought to be juicy gossips), that's a yes, too!” he said very quickly. “Like I said, name's Barnabas Butterbur – that's me name on the sign out there if you hasn't caught it. The family's been running this place for ages, in fact long enough you can come out there and ask any random Rushlight or Heathertoe or Ferny and they'd say rightly I'm among the most important person in this here county!”  
  
He coughed and put his kerchief away. “By the by,” he said. “You fine lasses coming from the East or South?”  
  
Fubuki's shoulder seemingly tensed. “What's the difference, sir?”  
  
“Not much about me, if you ask, 'cause good business is good business either way – Bree's not what it used to be after the Kings all went dead, they say. But then-”  
  
Now he leaned a _little_ closer towards Fubuki, sudden enough that the destroyer's shoulder shuddered.  
  
“Uh... sir?”  
  
And then equally as suddenly, the barman leaned back again.  
  
“Why, if you lasses come from the East, I may have something for ya.” There was a rustling sound: he produced from his pocket a very crumpled note. “Now, are there anyone among you lasses whose name is-” He began to read – difficultly. “Sen-dai, or Ji-jit-no, Jin't-soo, Gi- ah, never mind.” He wiped his brows, and went on, “or Ki-ri-shi-ma, or Mu-Moo-Moot-su-”  
  
At this the destroyer whose name was being mangled stepped forward. “It's _Mutsuki_ , sir,” she said, her face flushing. “T-that's me.”  
  
“Ah, yes, good, good,” said Mr. Butterbur, looking her up and down intently. “Lemme see here... Comes from out East, check. Funny-colored hair, check. Lean and petite, check. Short skirt and leggings and-” Here he stared at her shirt hard enough to make her blush harder. “-crescent lapel on the vest, check, check and check.”  
  
“Well, you're probably her for all I know,” he said, handed her the letter, and then swallowed hard. “All these strange, queer, foreign, Outsider names gonna break me poor tongue! Anyway, the wizard insisted that the letter be given to any one afore-named. Which is... even queerer, if you asked. But who am I to argue with a wizard?”  
  
Yuudachi peeked from over her left shoulder, Fubuki looked over her right, and Kongou had her chin on the back of Mutsuki's head.  
  
  
  
“ _Dear friends from the 'Naval District',_  
  
_(Whomever that happens to be here, at any rate)_  
  
_I've had to leave early – change of plans, among other things; chiefest of all the Master Dwarves being altogether keen on leaving much earlier than expected._  
  
_I dearly hope you are not coming alone – though I personally have, indeed, no doubt you've got a good team here already!  
  
Perhaps you might like to be advised, that our Company shall be leaving the Shire no later than the Twenty-Fourth of April, and would make ourselves available in this very inn in no more than two weeks – one, if I could dislodge a too-comfortable old friend from his porch and his pipes and his comfortable ways. Should you like to avail yourselves of the occasion to join us, pray do not stray too far from Bree-land during the first week of May!_  
  
_Bed and breakfast-through-supper at the Prancing Pony has already been paid for you, from my own pocket. Pray do enjoy the stay while you wait! It's a rare beauty, that is, Bree-land in late spring._

 

 

_Yours, in amusement (and great merriment)_  
  
_GANDALF_

  
_P.S. If the Misses_ Hazelnut _and/or_ Diamond _are about – which I am quite sure they should be, do tell them I appreciate them for the support they've likely given my case, and I most look forward to their participation in the Company._  
  
_P.P.S. If good old Barnabas Butterbur mangled the pronunciation of your name, do forgive him. Here's a good man, albeit a bit unlearnt in the ways of the man of letter._  
  
_P.P.P.S. I dearly hope the Prancing Pony is not in a dearth of black tea as was the case in your Naval District. If, however, this unfortunate trouble has indeed come to pass, let me know and there would be some rather harsh word for our dear innkeeper here._ ”  
  
  
  
Yuudachi blinked once and again at the letter. “Hazelnut, _poi_?” she said. “Diamo-” And then she spelled out the words in _kanji_ , and suddenly everything was clear. “ _Kongou-san_? _Haruna-san_?”  
  
Blasted wizards talking in code, that was what it was.  
  
Now Kongou's lips and eyebrows were twitching violently. “H-How did he know _I_ would be here? How did he know Haruna-chan and I even _support_ his adventure-thing at all?” she said “No, forget about that, how did he know our names?” A barely suppressed _dess_ of questionable amusement escaped her.  
  
“We've been too transparent, _poi.._.” said Yuudachi. Fubuki was nodding rapidly.  
  
“Anyway,” said Barnabas Butterbur, “the wizard paid very handsomely, as he always does! One gold piece in deposit, and as many, he promised, as there would be of the women (and/or girls, he said, queerly enough!) who'd be staying at the one and only Prancing Pony at his request!”  
  
“That... sounds _so_ wrong, _poi_ ,” said Yuudachi. Next to her, Kongou was making one of those _that's-lewd_ faces of hers – hands over eyes and everything.  
  
Given the scowl on the barkeeper's face, he well understood what they meant – and sort of took exception to the implication. “Ah, codswallop, that wizard? Queer fellow, he is, but altogether a good customer and a good man at that, and always has the courtesy not to frighten people though he darned well could have! Anyone laughs, tell them you heard it straight from Barnabas Butterbur himself! ” He leaned against the counter-top. “And I say, like we do in Bree these days, any business is good business, welcome, do come again!”  
  
“Well, it can't be helped if the old man's paid for our lodging,” said Kongou. “I wouldn't turn down free bed and breakfast. Smells like...” Her sizable chest heaved in a hearty breath. “Good old Merry England hospitality.”  
  
By which she probably meant the _absolutely glorious_ tea, scones and pastries being prepared in the kitchen just behind the innkeeper.  
  
“Aye, room's on the house, and sup, and breakfast, and luncheon, and tea, for-” He counted off his fingers, “two weeks, or whenever the wizard returns, whichever comes first. That's what he said.”  
  
Then he reached his hand behind his back and secured his apron in place. “Now, shall I take you to your room?”

***

  
Theirs was a fine room: One window lookking out into the open street and another into the courtyard. Four beds each at a corner. A small wooden wardrobe with a row of small wooden coat-hangers. A table too small to dine on but too large for every other purpose in the middle. It felt home-like enough, anyone could agree, although the distinct lack of sea-breeze was a minus point. Yuudachi wouldn't hold it against the inn, however. It was built to cater to ordinary folks, not fleetgirls stuck in another world.  
  
Barnabas Butterbur, the jolly old innkeeper, turned out to be quite the trustworthy sort. He'd agreed to keep their bikes towed away safely where no-one would look too hard (“Friends of wizards having wizardly stuff, no doubt,” he'd dismissed it, and asked no more questions). He'd also provided them a few destinations to visit: there was an _Austri and Vestri's Forge_ , a good dwarf-run smithy, for one, and a _Brockhouse's Everyday Sundries_ for groceries, and a _Mr. Underhill's Undercellar_ for dried stuff, among other fanciful, punny, or outright weird shop-names.  
  
Fubuki kept all of them, as was other snippets she'd heard, in her notes.  
  
Kongou, as was the norm, was a little less keen on doing market research, and a _lot_ keener on attending the pubhouse. “Just heading off right here and mingle for a bit,” she said. “Shall I be back at dinner?”  
  
“I... guess so,” said Fubuki anxiously. “Probably earlier if you can, Kongou-san? I'll just swing by the market; it shouldn't take too long. A-and please don't cause any troubl- Ah!”  
  
Fubuki's reward for her mother-henning was a stern ruffle of her hair.  
  
“It's all right, Bucky, it's all right!” She coughed, cleared her throat, and produced the best Kirishima impersonation Yuudachi had ever seen. “According to all calculations we've got nothing to worry about; what could _possibly_ go wrong?”  
  
Fubuki's face turned all sorts of funny colors again, until another hair ruffle made her finally settle with beet red.  
  
Kongou did what she did best: take a random seat in the middle of the Common, loudly yelling for the largest teapot they had on the house and a plate of pastry best described as “diabetic”.  
  
Fubuki very, very quietly slinked out of the front door and past the white-painted sign of the Prancing Pony – she couldn't have looked more like an awkward ninja in orange if she tried.  
  
Now there was Yuudachi and Mutsuki, a half-afternoon with nothing to do, and a sleepy town. What was a bored destroyer to do?  
  
_Actually, there's one thing I can do,_ poi _._  
  
She looked at Mutsuki, and immediately the course was clear.  
  
“Hmm?” she said. “Do you need anything, Yuudachi-chan?”  
  
Because Yuudachi might be simple, and unforgivably impetuous. She could lose a wordplay contest against some of the PT-girls fresh off the factory. She didn't think much before talking, and that was if she thought at all, as if thinking more than a few seconds at a time was overrated. She would likewise think nothing of charging an enemy gunship with nothing but a bit of tattered sail.  
  
But she wasn't stupid.  
  
She was smart enough, for instance, to tell that Mutsuki was distressed and never quite recovered. She was smart enough to tell that there was not much anyone could do for Mutsuki but pity her, and pity was distinctly _not_ what she needed. And of course, she was smart enough (or at least, smart _and_ ignorant enough) to tell that when all other paths had failed, there was still the path of the _poi~_.  
  
So she extended her hand: literally, and figuratively.  
  
“Nope, nothing, not at all, _poi_ ,” she said. “I just thought you might want some company, _poi_.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Want a walk, _poi_?” Yuudachi said. “It's a really good place for a walk, _poi_!”And then she broke into a smile: because opposite to her, Mutsuki's lips was curling into a smile too.  
  
“Yeah,” said Mutsuki.  
  
So they walked. They walked out of the sun-flooded archway of the Prancing Pony and past its white-painted sign. They walked through the stone-tiled streets, and past a small crowd of Bree-landers going about their businerss. They walked along the hedge-wall that separated Bree from Not-Bree. They walked out from the gate still opened (“Remember it closes at eight!” hollered the guard. She gave him a cursory nod and a typical 'airheaded-but-good-girl' wink, and pulled Mutsuki along the road).  
  
They walked along the scenic road past and about Bree-hill, round the slope and past the rows of corns and wheat, and got so far back East they saw a crude, white-painted sign that said “ _Welcome to Staddle_ ”. Then they turned around back the same way, and when the large hedge-wall of Bree was within sight, the sun was setting.  
  
They sat down on a large rock that looked out into the fields below the hillside. The roof of the three-storied Prancing Pony was barely visible in the distance. Down below, the sheep were coming home, and the ears of corn glowed in the sunset.  
  
Yuudachi leaned back, and took in so much of that cool spring breeze.  
  
It was absolutely breathtaking, that sight from the hilltop, and the feeling that came with it. It got her thinking – only a little, and that little was more profound than they'd give Yuudachi credit for. Something had happened to them, something scary, something unnatural, something really, really distressing and hopeless. And yet... well, like they always said, there was good things to be had, and hope if they knew where to look.  
  
Her shoulder suddenly felt heavier. Mutsuki had laid her head upon it; now the other destroyer had shifted her weight, and was leaning on her.  
  
“Yuudachi-chan?” she said.  
  
“Mmm?”  
  
There was a smile on Mutsuki's face now: a genuine smile, relaxed and carefree, for the first time since perhaps forever. “ _Thank you,_ ” she said, her face turning to a happy shade of pink.  
  
And Yuudachi said what she said best.  
  
“ _Poi~_ ” she went, and gazed at the twilight with a beaming smile of her own.

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bree as a backdrop for shipgirl yuri. Who'd have thunk?


	14. Chapter 14

**PART THE FOURTEENTH**   
  
**IN WHICH KIRISHIMA DEVELOPED A PARTICULARLY UNCOMFORTABLE  CASE OF SHIP-MIGRAINE**

  
  
  
“That is all. Do we have any questions?”  
  
When the Admiral told Kirishima to give the capital ships a briefing, she'd expected sparks – plentiful and uncontrollable. Not a kind of overhanging silence and so many eyes boring at her from all angles no armor seemed adequate.  
  
The order she'd relayed seemed to reverberate across the room, though she'd stated it five minutes ago. _“There shall be no military action whatsoever, neither offensive nor defensive, not even search-and-rescue, whether directed against the Eagles or around the crash area, until further notice.”_ she had said. _“The decision is final, from the Admiral's very desk.”_  
  
Her two sisters were standing on one end of the long table, Hiei gritting her teeth (she tried to be quiet, and Kirishima didn't know if she should appreciate the effort) and Haruna biting her lips )(her hand was mangling the hem of her skirt). Akagi and Kaga, sitting opposite to each other, their gazes not meeting at all – and it seemed this falling out had gone on for some time. Zuikaku and Shoukaku were holding hands at the middle of the table – one moment they were looking at each other, the next they'd agree Kirishima made for a finer gawking target. Yamato occupied the iron chair at the far side of the room – like she'd purposefully put some distance between her and Kirishima.  
  
The only one to remain without much emotion whatsoever was Mutsu. She was standing behind Kirishima, leaning against the wall and quietly sipping her orange juice while watching the drama unfold. That was, _if_ there would be any drama – and that _if_ was rapidly turning into _when_.  
  
_Drama indeed._ This was why Kirishima never wanted this promotion in the first place. She rubbed her temple for the fifth time, and tried to come up with something meaningful to say because _by the heavens she wasn't made for this sort of accusing silence_.  
  
A cheerful master of ceremony without an exciting event to narrate was just an unfunny clown.  
  
“Damn it,” said Hiei. Her fist hit the table with a _blam_.  
  
“I would look at the bright side if I were you,” said Mutsu. “We've paid far greater prices in both wars than three planes and one fairy-”  
  
“It's not about the _loss_ , damn it!” exclaimed Hiei. Now she looked up and her stare was firhgtening. “Hey, Kirishima-chan, you heard me? That you've just briefed us, that's really what the elves said? With a straight face? No sneering, no posturing, no _ha-ha-ha you useless grounded ships in a moor_?”  
  
Kirishima prided herself on her rational sensibility. Her hand fell hard on her sister's shoulder.  
  
“Don't _-chan_ me, Hiei- _oneesan_ ,” she said sternly. “I _am_ still the Secretary Ship. And the answer is, you're projecting.” She placed the report back on the table side in front of Hiei. “You can read it yourself. Nagato-san has been very... thorough with the report.”  
  
It was an extraordinarily dry minute of the last face-to-face meetings between Nagato and the lord of the elves. In which two things he had spoken stood out.  
  
One, a very _prophetic_ kind of phrase.  
  
“ _A chance would come to you_ [Unclear if he meant us, or just myself – _Nagato_ ] _soon, I daresay, and provided you stay true, they_ [The eagles – _Nagato_ ] _would make peace with you and abet you_ [Again, very worryingly ambiguous – _Nagato_ ] _in a grand manner._ ”  
  
And two, which was apparently spoken over supper and more liberally annotated.  
  
“ _You would find, I am afraid, that much as I would enjoy a fair dinner with a fair company_ [Which... sounds a bit like... flirting, to me - _Haguro_ ] _, if you would by any chance make war with the eagles_ [Here he spoke as if we were already considering it - _Nagato_ ] _I would find it impossible in my heart to dine with you and your splendid colleagues any longer_ [Estel was making a sore face, _nanodesu_ \- _Inazuma_ ] _. Or, at any rate, further abet you in any way_ [Now that's just unreliable - _Ikazuchi_ ].”  
  
Of course, throwing the report in her sister's face could only do so much. Elrond was being vague and vaguely threatening too, in a very diplomatic and respectful kind of way. It was a message that honestly could be interpreted in so many ways. If Hiei was only seeing what she liked to see, well, not much Kirishima could do about it, could she?  
  
“We do know the elves are very good friends with the eagles... whatever they are,” said Kirishima. “If we were to act rashly... this could be a prelude to war.”  
  
_A silly, pointless and self-destructive war, at that_.  
  
“If I may, Kirishima-san? How reliable do you think Fubuki-chan's report is?” said Zuikaku. “She did get her information from a weirdo in a makeshift hut! Who put one of the fairies inside his _hat_ while he was out in the rain _ostensibly_ waiting for her fleet to come round the corner!”  
  
“Well, there's Kongou- _oneesan_ with her,” said Kirishima. “If the girl's imagination had gotten out of line, my sister would have knocked the ridiculousness out of her.”  
  
“My humblest of apologies,” said Kaga with a low, monotonous voice. “But you must forgive me for not putting much stock in Kongou-san's soundness of judgement at all.”  
  
Kirishima opened her mouth, then closed it swiftly. She felt like slapping herself: Citing _Kongou_ as any sort of proof for an argument was grasping at straws on the best of days and they all knew it. Any more defending her sister in this regard would pretty much be outright nepotism.  
  
“Mmm.” She leaned back on her chair and began massaging her temple.  
  
To think that the whole debacle was caused by three downed recon planes and one radio from Fubuki. The destroyer, dutiful as she always was, must have thought her report had made things better. It hadn't.  
  
“But assume she is right. Assume those eagles are in fact some kind of a sovereign _nation –_ excuse me – who's ostensibly an ally of the elves like the Admiral assumes.” said Shoukaku. Her demure voice was tinted with disappointment. “What are we going to do now?”  
  
Kirishima bit her lips. By the Emperor, her thought was going in a terribly dark direction. Had none of the fairies survived, the naval district could have assumed they'd been lost in a freakish accident. Tragic, yes, but scouting fog-covered canyons in a craggy mountain range carried every risk it implied, and heartless as it sounded this sort of thing happened quite often to pilot-fairies.  
  
But now _two_ of them had been reported alive – though not well – and a third was missing, _and_ it was confirmed that theirs was no accident, but an attack by what sounded like a sovereign power. Suddenly the whole thing looked less like an unfortunate happenstance and more like a provocation against Japan – or whatever was left of it, anyway.  
  
Made worse since... well, since if what Fubuki reported were true and the eagles _were_ some sort of a proto-state, the shooting down of a military craft of one state _by another state_ in an ill-defined area of jurisdiction would well constitute an act of war.  
  
“You heard me,” said Kirishima. “We're going to stay put, observe, and trust Nagato- _san_ would work out some sort of a deal.” Her fingers left her temple. “We only want our fairy back-”  
  
“And an apology,” added Kaga. She left the 'or else' implied but all too clearly so.  
  
And what could Kirishima, logically speaking, say about that? That all remained of Japan in this world was a population of a few thousand and a territory about the size of Shinjuku did not make an act of hostility any less heinous or injurious to their collective pride, in the eyes of the soldiery. The fleet might no longer be a national army, but lifelong habits weren't likely to fade: an act of war was meant to be viewed and treated as an invitation for retaliation in kind.  
  
Not to mention, here, in this room, was half a dozen capital ships without any real enemy to shoot at for the last _month_ , and dormitory shenanigans could only go so far to keep them occupied. She would know. Paperwork had been a blessing for her: the now-common sight of Hiei lounging about yawning was _very, very distressing_.  
  
“What would you do if they don't give us that?” Kirishima asked sternly.  
  
“Then I shall be very angry,” Kaga said. Coldly. Matter-of-factly. And Hiei was nodding furiously from her corner of the table.  
  
But now Akagi stood up. “Everyone,” she said. “This disaster is entirely my error of judgement, for which I shall take full responsibility in accordance with military law. But... is there any chance I could head out for Rivendell myself?”  
  
Kirishima couldn't help but think it ironic that Akagi was the only one to oppose immediate and decisive application of force. At any rate she'd drawn most of the accusing glares from Kirishima, and she could well appreciate it.  
  
“What are you saying, Akagi-san?” Shoukaku snapped. “If Nagato-san failed to get a straight answer-”  
  
“But I am different. That's _my_ fairy who's lost. It's _my_ burden, and I think – I think if these Eagles are sapient enough, they'd know the feeling too,” Akagi said, her voice now terribly soft and low. Then she looked cross the room, and her voice was steelclad again. “Elrond- _san_ doesn't strike me as unreasonable. I am confident I can get through him somehow. The feeling of being a leader who failed to protect their subordinate is universal, I have no doubt! If I could only see him and petition him myself, I'm sure he'll listen!”  
  
Akagi's impassioned speech always had a way to quieten the room. She had always been the one to come to an emotional response – not that it was always a bad thing.  
  
But if that was what she wanted, then Kirishima had the perfect remedy/compromise in hand.  
  
“That would be unnecessary, Akagi- _san_ ,” she said. “Because Elrond's considering sending his own personal envoy over here to smooth out the matter. He's been requesting that we accept his resident envoy in the naval district for a while now, actually, and this incident has only-” She looked up, and found every pair of eyes on her had changed from anxiousness and/or dull rage to _complete, utter bafflement_. “Why are you all looking at me like that?”  
  
Haruna looked up, and shook her head very sternly. “ _Onee-san_ ,” she said. “I love you and everything, but... you could have told us this _first thing in the morning_. That would have saved us a lot of energy _getting worked up_.”  
  
Kirishima gulped. “Ah, well, that's because the Admiral hasn't yet made a decision and wanted a bit more time to consider-”  
  
A very big neon sign with “ _Uh oh_ ” painted on it in sixteen kinds of writing scripts was blinking red and orange inside her head.  
  
Haruna blinked _incredulously._ “So you mean you just babbled in front of _every single capital ship_ in the base something you, as Secretary Ship, should have kept a tight lid on?” she said. “I mean, it's probably going to be all right, _onee-san_ , but...”  
  
The tacit nods that radiated from every single ship in the room made Kirishima feel like crying “ _must scuttle self_ ” deep inside.  
  
Maybe she'd really do that, after knocking herself out with a generous helping of _sake_.


	15. Chapter 15

**PART THE FIFTEENTH**   
  
**IN WHICH LANDROVAL THE GREAT EAGLE HEARD “DESU”**

  
  
  
Landroval the second greatest Eagle of his Age circled around the rocky crags to the North of the Misty Mountains.  
  
This was his home, make no mistake, and had been so for many lifetimes of Man. And yet even for a Great Eagle, it was impossible to know every inch of his domain, simply because the land was vast and uneven, and just beneath the ground were concealed very many unsavoury and foul creatures. At any rate the Eagles loved not the ground, and as for the rocks and spires of the Misty Mountains they held even less adoration.  
  
This lack of love for the ground had not made his work - self-imposed though it might be - any easier or more pleasant. For two days now he had been circling around this particular neck of the mountain, his proudly keen eyes preened wide, his neck craned stiff, looking for any sight of a tiny thing smaller than his own nail.  
  
For it was him who had torn that steel bird wing from torso. This feat he regretted not: the bird had, as had its kin, violated the Eagles' domain without leave or announcement, and such insolence must rightly be punished.  
  
But then suddenly his two nephews who had slain the other birds let him know the steel birds carried in their bodies those tiny little things, broken and hurt and so, so afraid. He had gazed upon them, and found them white with pain and shock. They were fighters, no doubt about that, yet they felt all the same fair – like the faithful Mannish fighters who had taken up arms against the Enemy two Ages ago rather than the treacherous ones who fought for it.  
  
And there were two of them to the three birds they had taken down.  
  
“There should be a third,” one of his kin had said – the conclusion was obvious.  
  
“Then I shall look for them,” he had said, and had meant it. Because without compassion a Great Eagle of Manwe Sulimo would be little better than a worm of Morgoth.  
  
That he had been doing over the past three days – Landroval always kept his oaths, large or small – and it had been a tiring and thankless job.  
  
He had been circling, close to the stuffy and spiky ground without mirth or joy in his flight, driven on solely by the weight of his oath and his compassion. First he had flown close to where the steel bird fell - he could still see bits and pieces of its innards strewn all over the rocks and glinting morbidly under the Misty Mountains sun. Then he had reached further, diving and gliding past the mountain canyons. Many tendrils of rock and stone jutted out many feet above like death traps, and the wind here was less fair and more temperamental, and blew at such angles as to be treacherous to the careless fliers.  
  
It was now the fourth day, and though Landroval wished not to abandon the endeavour and leave in vain his efforts (for the Great Eagles were as stubborn as they were brave), even he was starting to see the hopelessness. The creatures were tiny and fragile, and not made to withstand the wilderness. Perhaps the unfortunate thing had well perished, and the thought made Landroval ill at ease with himself.  
  
_One last time_ , he thought to himself, _for foolish is the wing that puts hope in a wind too distant!_  
  
Then he turned about and around, and circled back towards the starting point. He saw the bulk of the iron bird's flesh dumped at the bottom of a cliff, its skin flayed, its bones splintered, its flesh and black blood scattered all over the scenery.  
  
But then suddenly he heard something. It was small and tiny and like a breeze, but it was definitely a voice, that went half like “death” and half like “dess”. It was weak and fragile and fading, buried by the wind over the canyon.  
  
He turned downwards and began hovering beneath the wind, and craned his neck further about till he could crane it no more. He turned about, and listened: now the “dess” seemed to come from above him. What a relief, he could not bear flying this low for much longer.  
  
Then he went around the crag again, and now was quite directly above the iron bird's carcass. There he looked about, again and again, and heard the “dess” more clearly than before. Then he looked up, and at once his eyes fell upon quite a sight to behold. There, dangling from a pair of ropes connected to a patch of cloth caught in a branch growing off the cliff, was a tiny little thing, clad in tattered green travel jacket and, hung there like a puppet caught by its own strings.  
  
Landroval felt, at once, like a fool. He had thought like an eagle had – that the answer to every search could be found far and away – that he had neglected to comb the original spot with a fine-toothed comb!  
  
“Desu”, she said again. Her voice had now grown tiny, and exhausted, and so, so pitiable. She was largely unhurt – the elastic cords that caught her on the branch had done a very good job suspend her in place. But she'd been out there for four days now, and the sheer fact that she was still conscious and even managed to shout at him for help was itself a miracle.  
  
“Desu,” she went.  
  
The language did not translate. The message, however, did. She was asking if he was there to kill her. The answer was obvious: if Landroval had opened his eye large enough it would be wider than she was tall, and he was a bird of great honour.  
  
“No,” he said sternly. He was on a rescue mission, certainly, and though he had now found the mark there were still questions to be answered. “But this is my domain all the same, and I should have a few questions for you.”  
  
The little creature smacked her lips. “Desu...”  
  
He really did not need to understand the language to know what she meant. Hungry and tired, as was expected of a creature left out in the wilds for three days. “Very well then,” he said. “I can do something about at least one of these things. One moment-”  
  
He darted off into the air, searching for something edible. He settled with a small berry-bush on the cliff, hanging many yards above the ground (and thus plucking hand). It was all of Landroval's dexterity to spear one of the berries off the very tip of his talon (it took a dozen tries. He was not proud of it).  
  
When he returned, the little creature was still waiting – and when she saw him her eyes went bright – though not without a little curiosity. “Desu?” _For me_?  
  
Landroval stuck out his talon. “Eat,” he said. “And then we shall talk.”  
  
The creature stared at him long, but then her hunger won over. She plucked the berry off his talon with both hands, its juice spraying all over her green vest. The little berry would not satiate a grown man, but this was a creature the size of a man's palm at most. So he waited – perching himself on the rock to the side – while she feasted.  
  
His tone, he realized, was now a little like Gandalf. “Who are you?” he asked. “And who sent you?”  
  
The little thing stared at Landroval, and then up at the cord holding her dangling. “Desu?” she begged.  
  
At once Landroval felt a bit foolish. “Oh, right. Pardon my manners,” he said, and snapped the cord.  
  
The test of agility with the berry had helped him: now it took him only two tries to sever the suspender with the tip of his talon. The little creature fell down, down, down, into a bed of feathers that was Landroval's wing-tip. “Desu.” she said, and gave him as deep a bow as her tiny body could afford. “Desu... desu?”  
  
“No need to thank me, and as to your question, I am not your enemy; or rather, I am trying very hard not to be.” He considered saying _I could kill you dead in a blink of an eye_ , but then decided against it. It felt _wrong_ , threatening a wholly defenseless and adorable little thing as her. “But I can only be your friend if you should be truthful. I am Landroval, a Prince among eagles, and it is as foolish a thing to be my enemy as it is wise to be my friend.”  
  
The creature studied him for a while. Then there was a tiny gulp in her throat. “Desu desu desu desu desu desu desu desu!” Her feverish speed was well and truly impressive.  
  
Now Landroval did not catch the whole message – not because of any language barrier, but because of how _weird_ her words were. “Wait, do not get carried away!” he said exasperatedly. “What is this ' _Air-Mother Red Castle_ '? What is this ' _Fifth Recon Squadron'_? And what is this ' _Scouting the mountain for high-definition aerial photographs_ '?”  
  
The creature bit her finger. “Desu... desu desu desu desu.”  
  
She was speaking, albeit in a most hurried way, of a 'base' on the riverside with a lot of hungry people getting their food from the elves in exchange for better maps. Or something to such effect. Indeed it would have been a most interesting tale, if it was not so... out there.  
  
“That _does_ sound like a very tall tale-” Landroval mused.  
  
Then something clicked within him. Several weeks ago some of the eagles had made a most amazing observation: a very odd sort of citadel had emerged, seemingly overnight, in a patch of land a few hours' flight from the Misty Mountains, downstream the Hoarwell.  
  
There had been queerer tales, too, from the robins and hummingbirds who nested in the Trollshaws: something about little girls and youthful women who glided on the water as though ships and who had, on occasions, conjured terrible thunderstorms and lightningbolts. The little birds and butterflies from about Rivendell, too, had informed them that Lord Elrond Half-elven (may his wings take him far and wide) had made contact with the folks who dwelt there.  
  
As Lord Elrond had not at once started making war on the newcomers, Landroval could only guess they'd come to some sort of understanding – or at least a truce.  
  
“Are you with the folks from the little town-” He swayed his neck towards the West “-that-”  
  
The little creature's beady black eyes widened in joy. “Desu desu desu!” she cried.  
  
“Well, that explains much, though not everything,” said Landroval. “What did you say the place's called again? The _-”_ He would have gone cross-eyed if eagles could have gone cross-eyed at all. _“Horizon-Compulsory-Salutations Naval District_? Strange language, but I suppose that's not my place to ask.”  
  
She waved her hands quickly. “Desu! Desu! Desu!”  
  
There was so much dread in her tone that her words - and thoughts - seemed to stick like that flop of food Men and Dwarves called cram.  
  
“Not meant to intrude, you say!” Landroval found it very hard to voice his disapproval, but voice it he must. “At any rate you have trespassed upon our vast eyrie, and by the justice of Manwe Sulimo you have been struck down.” The Great Eagle rapped his claw on the rock. “But let it not be said the Great Eagles are without mercy! If you would give me your word of honour this shall never come again to pass, we can perhaps let slide this offense.”  
  
Now the little thing looked really conflicted about itself. “Desu...” she said. “Desu desu desu!” Her words, and indeed her thoughts, were now clearer and plainer to see: She was following orders, and that notion gave the great eagle pause. For the Great Eagles respected freedom, but they were all the same veterans of the many wars in the distant past. They were acquainted enough with the concept of _armies_ as to know it was folly at best and cruelty at worst to treat a subordinate as wholly complicit in a decision made by their superiors.  
  
_Squall take me, why haven't I thought of that?  
_  
“Well, I suppose that's... fair enough,” he said. "Still! How shall I know your _commander_ has meant well, and had come in ignorance rather than malice?"  
  
“Desu! Desu desu desu!”  
  
The name Red Castle came up again, and with no small veneration. It then came to Landroval that the name referred not to a fortress, but a person, and that person - so said the little creature - was the kindest, most maternal Landroval would find ever find. Which, of course, was a bit much: the Great Eagle had been around for millennia, and had known such great souls as this puny creature could never even dream of.  
  
But she had given him respect and asked for his mercy and understanding, and Landroval would not be so petty as to deny her such. Particularly when her thoughts, at their root, had betrayed no willingness to make war.  
  
Landroval thought for a while. Then he came to a decision, as was most things with eagles, very quickly. It was a _very_ easy decision to be made, at any rate.  
  
“I shall take you to a friend who would take care of you,” he said. “And then I shall go and speak to this _'Red Castle'_ , in my brother's name and my own – she had better not disappoint.”  
  
The creature shook her head rapidly. “Desu! Desu desu desu!”  
  
Now there was real fear in her tone and her thoughts: not for herself, but for _him_ of all things. She was speaking of a 'high alert' - whatsoever it was supposed to mean - and of giant iron-spitting tubes that would no doubt shoot him down if he strayed too close.  
  
Landroval's first instinct as an immortal Great Eagle was to laugh it off. Which, in a way, he did. "Now you've got to be exaggerating, little one," he said. Goblins had tried to shoot them down, as had some of the less sophisticated and more savage Men who dwelled East of the Mountains. They'd done little more than tickle the Eagles.  
  
“Desu! Desu! Desu!” protested the little creature, now more adamantly and now more fearfully, and that, again, gave Landroval enough of a pause to think a little more deeply into the whole affair.  
  
These sky-invading folks were not quite unsophisticated, and though they might not be learnt in the esteemed and ancient way of the Valar yet afar, they were still crafty enough to make birds of steel that could fly as high as any bird save the Great Eagles themselves. Perhaps, Landroval thought, his brother and many of his kin might well disagree, but the more thought he gave to this business, the more he realized it would well and truly be unwise to discount entirely what those people could actually do.  
  
So he lowered his voice, and likewise lowered his head so that his eye was level with her. “I'm listening,” he said. “What would you suggest?”  
  
The little thing was beaming.  
  
“Desu! Desu desu desu!” She said, and bowed very very quickly.


	16. Chapter 16

**PART THE SIXTEENTH**   
  
**IN WHICH NAGATO'S SANITY TOOK A LETHAL BLOW**

  
  
  
When Nagato tuned down the radio receiver on her bridge, Ooyodo's voice – echoing with static – was replaced at once with a very soft, very timid and very concerned tone.  
  
Haguro's eyes had not left her throughout the conference call, and it wasn't exactly a short one. “H-How's it, Nagato-san?”  
  
“Well, at least nobody is killing eagles yet,” Nagato said exasperatedly. “Though from the sound of things Kaga are already putting their name down in her stuff-to-be-bombed-note.” She shuddered a bit. “Meanwhile the Secretary Ship's... antics, let's put it that way, managed to _somehow_ keep most of the base in good humors if only because of how _hilarious_ she is. For now.” She paused, brushed some strands of hair off her forehead, and tried to relax her face a bit. “Oh, and Akagi-san is coming along.”  
  
“Is she?”  
  
“Yes. At least for a few days – she wanted to reason with Elrond herself.” _I'm starting to pity the Rivendell kitchen staff right about now._ “Zuihou's taking her place back at base – Could you please tell her to make ready for departure tomorrow morning?”  
  
Nagato sighed, and fell down on the chair. Her sanity was rapidly draining these days: between the paperwork, the constant reports, the management of supplies and accounts and now this up-and-coming crisis, she was starting to _miss_ having Abyssals to fight, of all things. Perhaps that was what they had been made for, as weapons of war, and now without their _raison d'etre_ they simply couldn't cope so well; not just her, but everyone else too.  
  
And Haguro? She'd noticed. “A-are you alright, _Nagato-san_?” she said hastily. “I-I'm sorry I'm not of much help-”  
  
“No, you've been good,” she said. “You've been very good, Haguro.”  
  
It was, all in all, not a very sincere praise.  
  
The timid heavy cruiser was no Mutsu. Haguro would be an excellent manager of a far-flung fleet, or the adjutant to a strong-minded flagship in a less complicated time. In times of greater stress her nerve (and her crew's, too) would give way too fast, her lack of confidence striking too hard, that she'd be all but deadweight.  
  
But then again, beggars couldn't be choosers. And Nagato would rather have one of Haguro than half a dozen of Kongou at her side for this sort of thing, thank you very much. It wasn't like she was a stranger to propping up less confident colleagues either.  
  
She stacked the last three days' logistic report on Haguro's hands. “Please have a look over this and have me the final numbers before dinner,” she said. “And have Ikazuchi or Hachi on the standby so Akagi-san wouldn't be lost on arrival. Rivendell's bigger than it looks.”  
  
“W-will do, Nagato-san!”  
  
“I'm counting on you,” she said, and couldn't help but smile.  
  
Hardly had Haguro left the room when another red squirrel leaped through the open window and landed on the sill.  
  
This had happen – Nagato counted off her palm – no less than half dozen times over the last few days. The cuteness was paralyzing – for the first couple times. After that, Nagato had wised up: A squirrel through the window was apparently the braggart Son-of-Elrond's way of announcing he would come up to pester her in one way or another.  
  
And just like on cue: there was a knock at the door. “Come in,” said Nagato. Her attempt to sound emotionless feel sort of flat: she sounded mildly angry. Not a good start.  
  
As though everything had been pre-arranged, Elladan swept into the room. He did not smile.  
  
“Oh, my lady Nagato,” he said. “Am I imposing in any way?”  
  
_Yes you totally are_. “Not that I can think of,” said Nagato, making a show of turning the pages _very_ audibly. Then she stopped and glared at him. “Any way I can be of service, sir?”  
  
“Why, I was wondering if I could interest you in a walk,” he said with a bow. “You've been working for far too long, and Rivendell is quite well known as a place to relax, not to strain yourself over in hard labour.”  
  
“If there's anything you wanted to discuss, you can speak right here,” she said, and returned to her paperwork. _This has better not be another attempt to **flirt**_...  
  
But now suddenly his eyes were like dancing flame, and there was a certain warlike gleam about him. Off his shoulder the squirrel leaped, suddenly finding close proximity with Nagato a lot more comfortable. It jumped into her open palm, and Nagato allowed a blush to rise to her face - but only just. Elladan was anything but humorous.  
  
“O very well,” he said. “I am quite concerned about your misunderstanding with the great Eagles-”  
  
“We are trying to handle this matter as delicately as we can,” snapped Nagato. She looked straight ahead, because that _was_ the truth and she had nothing to hide.  
  
“I am not trying to counsel you, my lady,” he said, “because I have no doubt in your capacity for wisdom. But I am quite concerned about your _colleagues_ ' collective wisdom.”  
  
“There's nothing you can do about that,” said Nagato bluntly, not lifting her eyes off the paperwork.  
  
“Well, there _is_ something I can do, I think,” said Elladan. “I was thinking to ask if you could assist us in a more... substantive way. There's been some abnormal goblin activity along the lower pass of the Misty Mountains. They do that once every so often: appearing after long periods of absence, launching raids at far-flung villages while the Rangers are spread too thin to stop them.” Now his voice was stern and devoid of all light-heartedness. “This time I thought it would be good to push them far back, and let them know they've got a new foe.” His fist fell upon his palm.  
  
Nagato glanced up. Elladan's fiery gaze was still upon her. “And how would helping you help us _in this matter_ exactly?”  
  
“Very greatly, indeed,” said Elladan. “Ridding the world of a goblin army making ready for a raid would save many lives, and at the same time win you accolades and friends – and not just from the folks you would save.” His voice became grave and there was suddenly a tinge of sorrow in it. “We've got enough misery in this world of ours due to lack of trust.”  
  
He drew closer to her table, and bent down, so he looked smaller and more humble.  
  
“I said I did not come bringing counsel. I lied.” he said. “My advice to you is to dispel any doubt that you are on _our_ side before anything unfortunate happens. Fight with us. Shed blood, tear and sweat with us. Defend with us that which we both hold dear. Prove to us you are here to be friends, to uphold this watchful peace of four centuries, to protect and preserve the innocent Free Peoples. And then even if an incident would break out between you and the Great Eagles,” he said, “it would be easier to solve and your case easier to argue.”  
  
It was not a speech Nagato had expected. It was impassioned and fiery, and the light in the elf's being was dancing before her eyes like burning a hole through her searchlight. “I... I will think about it.” And then something within her just _cracked._ “Suppose I said yes,” she blurted, “What kind of reinforcement would be sufficient?”  
  
Elladan was opening his mouth when into the room charged Hachi. The door hit the room behind her with a _crash_ , and at once her state of immediate undress (much censured among the elves) did not seem to bother her one bit.  
  
“N-Nagato-san!” she cried. “ _Notlage_! _Achtung Notlage_!” She was so nervous, the pronunciation of her German was even _more_ mangled than it normally was. And _then_ she saw the elf standing in the room. “A-ah, _H-herr_ El-” she said, and her face turned white.  
  
Nagato shot up. “What _exactly_ has happened?” She threw the submarine a stare that (she hoped) said _screw the elf, just cut to the chase!_  
  
“Th-there is trouble on the riverside!” she said. “P-please come quick!” She kept throwing glares at Elladan, which could only be interpreted as _you're not welcome_. Or _Oh dear, please don't follow us_.  
  
“Elladan- _san_ ,” she said. She had half a thought to say something properly diplomatic, but Hachi's tone and her feverish look made her decide against it. “I have to go. Now.”  
  
“Then let me accompany you!” he exclaimed. “If it is trouble, and if it is close to home, it is my responsibility to face it with steel if need be!”  
  
Now Hachi's gesture was frantic.  
  
“Sir, with all due respect I _am_ a _battleship_.” It was all she could do not to make herself sound more spiteful than would be helpful. “If you want to tag along be my guest, but keep your gallantry to yourself, because I can't be held responsible for your safety if-”  
  
“I _am_ a son of Elrond Peredhel,” he said, as if it meant a lot. Or perhaps it _really_ meant a lot to him and to those people, and only Nagato did not know it. Not that it mattered: she virtually left the elf behind in the room and rushed out.  
  
So very hasty they were that Nagato very nearly bumped into Haguro on the way out.  
  
Nagato's hand fell on the heavy cruiser's shoulder without a single apology. “Go collect everyone,” she said. “Tell them to make ready for Case E. Quick!”  
  
Haguro just stood there, stunned. “I... I... I'll do that!” was all she could say.  
  
As Nagato rushed down the courtyard, she could barely hear the elf shouted something to a maiden coming down the walkway. She turned around – briefly – only to see the maid blanching. She turned on her heels, and vanished behind a corner of the manor-house.  
  
The trio's footsteps rained on the cobbled walkway leading out of the fortress-manor and into the wilderness. Then Nagato leaped into the water, and was again in full combat rig-out: she cruised forth along the river; water splashed about her. In front of her Hachi was half-submerged, splashing and turning aside water as she dived forward. The elf kept running: he was surprisingly agile on his feet, and kept up with her at cruise speed along the water's edge  
  
They did not have to go very far. The river had run dark with a slick black goo that looked like oil yet smelled far fouler. When they came close enough for the black stain to be problematic, Hachi abandoned diving altogether, and who could have blamed her? The stench had carried a long way downstream, and Nagato's bridge crew was going a little queasy before they saw the first sign of sludge on the surface.  
  
Nagato's radar crew confirmed exactly one shape, moving very, very slowly – and erratically – towards them. Even without the black stains that rang all kinds of alarms.  
  
They did not have to keep guessing for long. What they were looking for was moving just over a bend of the river, hidden behind a swathe of vegetations.  
  
There in the middle of the river was Akagi. Her face was stained black, her clothes torn, her chestguard rent, and many scratches were running along her bared back. Her bow was missing. Her quiver, completely empty.  
  
Behind her, attached to her by something like a makeshift towing-cord, was a raft hurriedly put together from a quad of tree-trunks felled by 25mm guns. And on the raft-  
  
Nagato's boilers _stopped_.  
  
On the raft was the dark, broken shape of an eagle larger than any Nagato had ever seen in her life – bigger than an Army Type-100 cargo plane at least. Its body was pierced with many arrows, spears, javelins and a couple crooked, black scimitars. Its form was still – but for a a fainting movement where its chest was, that indicated it was still alive. Barely.  
  
The elf was speechless, and so was Nagato.  
  
“A-Akagi-san?” was all she could utter. “W-what-”  
  
Like a vessel listing over and taking in too much water, Akagi collapsed on her knee with a big _splash_.  
  
All the oil in Nagato's body turned to ice.


	17. Chapter 17

**PART THE SEVENTEENTH**   
  
**IN WHICH ASASHIO LEARNT THE DEFINITION OF “CONCUSSION”**   
  
_(Aka. The First “Battle” of Hoarwell)_

  
  
Asashio had nothing against sortieing at night: the water was cool and the moon was out shining. It was like a river cruise, all told, and out alone escorting the most famous fleet carrier in the Pacific and Abyssal Wars both... well, that was an almost romantic thing. Had there _ever_ been a destroyer that had not wanted to be Akagi's escort? Probably not that she knew of.  
  
So when Akagi turned to her and smiled and said, “Thank you, Asashio- _chan,_ ” the little destroyer went pink in the cheek.  
  
“Th-that's nothing, Akagi- _san_ ,” she said. “This is my, no, this is _our_ duty and I just can't turn my back to it – especially not if you asked!”  
  
It was not everyday that Akagi personally asked her to be her escort on a mission of mercy. Which was, one, extremely important, and two, extremely honorable. The fact that the Japanese navy had all too often abandoned their pilots – their best and finest – to their fate had never sat well with her, in her previous life as now.  
  
There was something else, too, that had put Asashio on edge ever since Akagi marched down the destroyer bunkhouse and straight up asked _who_ would join her. Without Ikazuchi or Inazuma around, the next hand to shoot up in the air, naturally, had been Asashio's.  
  
Because fleetgirls as a rule remembered their triumphs and their failings alike.  
  
They were cruising under the cover of darkness along the twisted waterway of what was called the _Hoarwell_ by the locals. Kaga had advised a daytime run, but Akagi insisted. “We don't have much time,” she insisted, and there was such urgency in her voice one would be forgiven to think it was Midway all over again. Except unlike Midway, Akagi had brought no plane with her, not even one. In fact she'd left her bow also, reasoning that wherever she was going there was no need to flaunt weapons around.  
  
Which... wasn't very prudent, but not senselessly so. After all, there was a sizable combined fleet on the other end of their voyage, and Nagato's prudence could make up for an entire fleet's lack thereof.  
  
What could possibly go wrong, indeed.  
  
Then, as if on cue, it happened.  
  
The incident began, like mostly every other poor happening at sea, with an abnormal radar reading and an abnormal noise. This time the reading was a big flying object – almost like a bomber, and the noise was a whizzing sound of an enormous pair of bird wings. They looked up: and lo: there a dark shape unfurled over the forest, above the tip of the tallest trees along the Eastern bank.  
  
Asashio could only turn her searchlight straight upwards. What she saw was a most curious thing: a very great eagle, staggering its way through the air. It was gliding – poorly – like a torn kite, or the aerial equivalent of a drunken man. One moment it was dragging a squiggly line through the air above Asashio, and the next her cheek felt wet: a very large glob of blood had splashed on her face.  
  
It was then that Akagi pointed up. Her face tensed. “The fairy,” she said.  
  
“Akagi- _san_?”  
  
Akagi was adamant. “Asashio-chan, stay out of the way!” she cried. “The fairy... _my_ fairy is on that eagle!”  
  
At once Asashio tensed. “Eeeh? Akagi- _san_ , but-”  
  
The look she got from the fleet carrier all but said _no time for silly questions._ “Get behind me,” she ordered, and that was that.  
  
Her voice echoed all over her internal radio, so loud Asashio could hear her too: “ _All bridge and flight deck crew, evacuate to lower levels._ ”  
  
Then the fleet carrier dug her heel into the water, her flight deck raised like a shield. “Permission to land, granted!” she cried.  
  
There was a terrible crash. Several dozen tons of flesh and bones and feathers slammed into Akagi like an oversized shell, the eagle's talons scratched along her raised flight deck and cut into her shoulders. Its enormous mass very nearly drowned her: its beak alone slammed into her head with enough force to stagger her. And then its mass slid off her – not nicely, not smoothly, but workably.  
  
In the crash the fairy flew out of it in a twinkle, and sailed over the air like a baseball: now Asashio wasn't known for her baseball skill, but this once, she made like one. She leaped off the surface and reached out, out, _out_. The fairy hit her palm with a soft _thud_ and a _desu_.  
  
“I've got her!” cried Asashio. She glanced at her palm. The fairy was teary and white as a sheet and grimacing in pain, but she was alive and conscious. She towed the brave little thing away before any further complication could strike them.  
  
Beside her, the eagle had slid off Akagi and into the water with a soft _splash_. For a crash-landing, one could do a lot worse. Asashio's next decision, naturally, was _radio HQ on the double_.  
  
Hardly had the thought crossed her mind when her radar caught a very large object sailing overhead towards her.  
  
“E-evasive maneuver!” she exclaimed before her eyes registered what it is.  
  
The object turned out to be a large boulder the size of an adult sheep – and her reaction came a mite too late. The projectile slammed into her head like an artillery shell and shattered upon her bridge. She dropped on one knee on the water surface.  
  
“ _Damage report!_ ”  
  
Blood trickled down her temple and cheek. Her ears rang like many bells, and through the haze she could vaguely figure out her fairy screaming something like, radio tower broken, searchlight malfunctioning, fire control offline. It was a critical blow at a critical time.  
  
“Ee'! I hit it!”  
  
It was a crude, savage voice that heralded a crude, savage company.  
  
From the darkness on the shore emerged dozens, no, hundreds of hunched, dark shapes. They sneered and screeched in a language so unpleasant to the ears. Countless dark eyes gleamed red, and there were wicked howls of scores of wolves beneath the crescent moon.  
  
Then there were flashes of torches: one, two, a dozen, then countless. The shapes turned out to be misshapen, leather-skinned monstrosities, some on foot, some mounted atop wolves the size of ponies. From behind the rank emerged a creature larger than the rest, clad in crude plates of black steel, hoisting a torch in one hand and a clutch of black-feathered dart in the other.  
  
“Women!” the creature hollered. “Fortune! Rip, tear and break! Torture, pain and many feasts! On, on, onward!”  
  
There was a disgusting echo of laughter, the stretching of many bow-strings, and the glint off many wicked-looking throwing implements.  
  
Akagi responded in the only way Asashio knew the fleet carrier would: serenely.  
  
“Asashio- _chan_ ,” she said. “Could I ask you to look after the eagle?”  
  
A streak of red flashed past Asashio's eyes. “Akagi- _san_?” she asked, her voice unsteady. Was it her pain talking, or-  
  
_This had happened before._  
  
But Akagi- _san_ looked at her with those motherly eyes that clearly said _I understand_. She waved her hand. Her three dozen barrels of AA autocannons lowered towards the river bank.  
  
“I'll be alright,” she said, and whipped around. So slowly she stepped closer to the bank, and faced the bristing bows and arrows and javelins pointed at her. One step. Two steps. Three.  
  
“In the name of the First Carrier Division and the _Kidou Butai-_ ” Her tone was resigned and so, so sorrowful.  
  
“-I am sorry.”  


***

  
It was not a battle, but an execution. Not without resistance, but as a rule crude arrows and darts and javelins could only do so much against what Akagi- _san_ was. The arrows and javelins thrown, first in glee, then in anxiousness, then in _desperation_ , did little but tear her clothes.  
  
Akagi did not kill every single thing she saw. In fact, Asashio thought she was making a conscious attempt not to: there were yet many whimpers and screams and shouts that fell further and further from the river bank. There were survivors, quite numerous and completely shattered, running away for whatever hill they could find. Yet on the beach lay enough bodies to fill a small graveyard.  
  
All along the water's edge, over maybe half a kilometer, broken dark corpses littered the bank. Some had rolled into the water with pitiful splashes. Some were slumped in place. Others cut to unrecognizable bits. The armored braggart in crude steel armor was the first to fall: it had learnt, too late, that patchwork iron was little better than wet tissue in the face of 25-mm AA guns. Many still-burning torches rolled along the bank, some setting fire to the bushes where they fell.  
  
Some of the giant wolves had tried to rush her. A dozen of their mangled bodies were now floating downstreams, oozing black blood all over the water. The rest, wisely, had ran and limped away whimpering, abandoning their partners to whatever fate.  
  
Now two large boulders hit Akagi, shattering on her head like shells. She did not even flinch, though blood was starting to trickle down her forehead and past her nose.  
  
At once she turned towards their launcher: two large, lumpy shapes standing a fair distance from the water's edge. Not quite far enough to escape even had they chosen to – and they stood to fight. Their silhouettes exploded against the forest's dark background in a hail of AA rounds.  
  
The third shape stood still for a time. “Tom?” it growled. “Bert?” When no answers came it stood still, as though stunned in shock and awe. Then it growled and howled, and heaved another boulder atop its hunching shoulder.  
  
“I'm sorry.”  
  
It fell dead in halves with the boulder still in hand.  
  
The last empty autocannon shell casing fell on the water with a quiet splash at about the same time Asashio had settled the eagle's carcass on dry land.  
  
The flames on the other bank shone upon the unmoving shape. The eagle was barely alive, having been pierced by so many arrows and javelins and black darts, now that Asashio gazed upon him. The rescued pilot-fairy was hysteric. A trail of red blood had diffused into the water on that side of the river. It was doubtful whether the eagle would even survive.  
  
Asashio staggered back to the scene of slaughter, out of force of habit rather than anything.  
  
There was a terribly nauseating smell all about: from the black blood, from the broken bodies, even from the many projectiles that had bounced off Akagi- _san_ and now floating in the water dyed black. Asashio thought she was going sick. Or perhaps that was the concussion talking: her vision blurred, her eyes were watery, and the collective memory of her old crew come flooding back.  
  
_It's so dark._  
  
_It's so cold._  
  
_It hurts._  
  
_Mommy._  
  
_I want to go home._  
  
_I'm so sorry._  
  
The collective stream of consciousness washed over her: her head throbbed, her thoughts muddled. At once Asashio wanted nothing more than to sit down, or lie down, and wake up another time when her own ghosts had been placated.  
  
This was not what she had been brought back for. It was, after all, easy enough to ease into warfare when all you saw was flashes of cannon fire and the enemy, impersonal and distant, clad in a shell of steel and concrete sometimes, go down in smoke and flame. It was far less pleasant when you see exactly _what_ your guns would do to flesh and bones.  
  
So distracted and in pain Asashio was, she didn't see Akagi had swept to her side. “It's all right, Asashio-chan,” she said. “I-I'm here. I'm still here.”  
  
She smelled like blood and guts and death, and the mere sight of the battle-worn fleet carrier made Asashio cringe – and what conscious part of her felt like kicking herself for it.  
  
“A-Akagi- _san_?”  
  
She glanced on the river-bank. “I have a gallant oversized bird to deliver somewhere safe.” Her voice nearly cracked at the end.  
  
Whatever came through Akagi's mind, Asashio honestly could not understand.  
  
“Go back to port,” she said, half pleadingly, half like an order.  
  
“B-but-”  
  
“It... can't be helped, can it?” Akagi seemed to be trying to hide her distress with a giggle. “We are, after all, on a mission of mercy.” She was _terrible_ at it.  
  
“ _You did good, Asashio-chan.”_  
  
But Asashio didn't have enough about her to argue. The pain, such as it was, mounted: in the calm after so much gunfire, there was nothing to feel but surging pangs.  
  
She could not remember when she collapsed on the water. Nor when Akagi- _san_ loaded her, crew and all, on that makeshift raft her fairies had put together in a hurry.  
  
But now, now, when she could feel a kind of warmth yet extinguished wrapped all over her, she drifted into a dreamless sleep, beneath what felt like a warm blanket of so many feathers.  
  
In this lifetime, in this timeline, the little destroyer had succeeded in her mission of mercy.


	18. Chapter 18

 

**PART THE EIGHTEENTH**  
  
**IN WHICH AKAGI WRECKED THE IMLADRIS LARDER**

  
  
Akagi woke up to the soft lapping of warm water about her shoulders.  
  
The first thing to strike her was how pleasant it felt. A warm bath was meant to be soothing and curative, and this bathwater was full of sweet scents: petals and leaves of many unknown kinds were about her. It was a kind of pleasure almost as delectable as being doused in an instant repair bucket, but emulated entirely through herbs and plants and maybe the magic of the place.  
  
She blinked, rubbed her eyes and looked about. This wasn't the Naval District's dry dock, no, it was a very large circular bathhouse with a circular pool of smoothed enameled stone in the center. The poolside was lined with pearls and silver, and engraved with a flowing script and patterns of leaves and stars. If not for the water, the chamber could be mistaken for a meditation room.  
  
It took Akagi a good chunk of her willpower to tear herself out of the sheer feeling of drowsiness and marvel.  
_  
That's right. I must have collapsed._ The realization at once filled her with anxiety. _Asashio-chan? And the eagle, too? Did we make it?_  
  
She inched about in the water. Her head felt light and somewhat heavy at the same time: there was a layer of thick fabric wrapped around her forehead from temple to temple. She dived into the bath and let warm water wash over the bruise and tear on her head. _Better._  
  
Her memory was a bit of a blur, and she felt a bit like a fool. Her superstructure was indeed formidable, but taking a falling eagle and then a large rock or two to the head was bound to shake things up pretty badly. But then she remembered one thing, right, one important thing: _I ran into Nagato-san._  
  
The thought made her more at ease. Nagato was as imperfect as any other fleet girl, but in a pinch there was hardly anyone Akagi could have trusted more.  
  
But for the dressing she was completely naked otherwise. A light blush came to her face. They'd known each other for two lifetimes, two wars and countless years in between, yet the notion of being undressed while unconscious – even by another fleet girl – wasn't one she'd like repeated any time soon.  
  
Akagi was still lost in rumination when suddenly the great door to the exquisite bathing hall swung ajar. Into the curtain of steam swept a woman in a flowing robe. No, not a woman – Akagi's gaze fell at once on her pair of leaf-shaped ears barely hidden behind her black tresses – but one of those elves. She walked noiselessly towards Akagi. Their gazes met so abruptly Akagi almost dove back into the bath with blushes on her cheek.  
  
The elven maiden was unflinching. “You're awake, milady,” she said.  
  
“Yes, I am,” said Akagi, and the calmness of the maid got her to relax too. She looked up at the elf, and smiled with some amusement. “I must have been a hassle, haven't I?” And self-deprecation too: Akagi wasn't bad at it.  
  
“Not at all, milady,” said the elf. “You must thank the Lady Nagato, it was she who insisted you be put into a bath in the first place against all recommendations from the healers.”  
  
“Is Asashio-chan... is the destroyer... I mean, the girl travelling with me, how is she?”  
  
“Worry not, we have placed her into another bath also.” said the maid. “ She might wake up any time now too.”  
  
“And... and the eagle?” Akagi asked quickly. “Did it... survive?”  
  
"He, milady." The maid regarded Akagi quite fondly. “He is in Master Elrond's power now, milady, and that means all shall be well.”  
  
Akagi slid a little further down into the water. “I see,” she said distantly.  
  
“Master Elrond asks to speak to you as soon as you've recuperated,” she said. “He would have come in person when you would be roused to consciousness, but...”  
  
“Ehehe,” went Akagi. “You have our apologies. We must have been a bother.”  
  
“We do what we can to assist our friends, milady,” said the maid. “And besides Master Elladan and Elrohir did very highly commend your bravery and valor. The goblins have not been dealt such a crushing blow in a while.”  
  
Now many thoughts bubbled inside Akagi's head, as her mind wandered past the wellbeings of her friends and to the actual incident of the previous (?) night. She lay back down on the bath again, and looked up at the waiting elf-maiden.  
  
“Say,” she said, “could I trouble you with a few questions?”  
  
It must be so awkward to stand at the sideline answering question from someone sitting in a bath, but just this once, just this once, Akagi thought she could afford to be impolite.

 

***

  
“Seconds, please?” said Akagi, raising her empty plate.  
  
An elf-maiden scurried in, and carried with her a tray piled with what could be a full-course meal for an adult: eggs and bacon, bread and butter and cheese, a plate full of sliced bread, a bowl of fresh forest berries in honey and clotted cream, and a jug of warm milk.  
  
It was the _seventh_ such tray over a mere hour. The elf-maiden waiting on her was starting to look a little pale – for which Akagi almost felt ashamed. Almost: to be Akagi meant to be hungry- ravenously and often, and she wasn't going to be apologetic about it all of a sudden.  
  
In comparison, Asashio was still nibbling at her buttered roll and looking increasingly ill at ease at Akagi's demolition of their host's kitchen supplies. “Um... Akagi san?” she asked quietly. “A-are you sure this-” Her eyes moved to the pile of empty trays and plates to Akagi's right. “-this is alright?”  
  
Akagi nodded forcefully – her mouth was too full and her cheeks too puffed to properly speak.  
  
Normally she wouldn't show that side of her to outsiders so easily. But this once, just this once, she felt she'd earnt the right to feast. The fairy was rescued. Asashio had recovered – although there was a large unsightly scar on her forehead that might well require an instant repair bucket to completely fix. The eagle was steadily recuperating (as the elf-maiden spoke, the Great Eagles of the North had been _devised_ far tougher than flesh and bones were meant to be). Her second day of stay in Rivendell was as much a holiday as it was meant to be. All was good and-  
  
“Ah, Lady Akagi, isn't it?”  
  
Akagi swallowed so fast she almost choked. She swung around, and saw there sweeping into the dining room a majestic figure: tall and bright and draped in blue. It was Master Elrond himself – he looked entirely different in person than in the photos circulated among the base personnel.  
  
Even though she'd been told Elrond would speak to her, she couldn't help but be startled. This was the first time, indeed, that Akagi came face to face with the elf-lord that had given HQ so many favors and so much to think about. Yet he appeared to her as a gentle figure bathed in light, and far more familiar than she thought he would be: like a father and a leader all the same, that exuded a sense of _security_. It was all she could do to wash her mouthful with half a jug of milk in a hurry. _Bad, bad impression, Akagi_.  
  
The elf-lord didn't seem to mind her apparent lack of decorum very much. “Your reputation indeed preceded you,” he said. “I have been... warned, let us say, of your appetite.” There was a good-humored smile across his face.  
  
“Ah, I guess so,” Akagi said sheepishly. Next to her Asashio was hiding her face behind her palm.  
  
“Do rest assured that I judge not on... this matter,” said Elrond. “Lady Nagato has kindly let me know why your... needs, are so extraordinary. Rest assured too, that you are among friends, and for what you have done you've earnt our gratitude.”  
  
_Well, crisis averted?_ “I do what I can,” said Akagi. Now she set down the fork and knives, and wiped her mouth with the napkin provided. She tucked a few stray strands of hair behind her ears, and made a halfway successful attempt at looking elegant again.  
  
“Were you looking for me, Elrond- _san_?” she asked.  
  
“Yes, indeed – to thank you, as I've said,” he said. “And also because I've heard enough good words about you to be curious myself.”  
  
Akagi's current thought was to regain the initiative in this discussion as soon as she could. “Oh, but the curiosity is all _mine_ ,” she said, and folded her hands neatly in front of her. “I've got some of my own questions, if you wouldn't mind the guest being nosy about the host's business.”  
  
Elrond lifted the corner of his eyes – in amusement, maybe, or perhaps in curiosity. “Then let us hear of it,” he said.  
  
“I have asked... a few,” she said, “about your enmity with the goblins. And your war with them.”  
  
Akagi was lying, technically. She'd asked just the one elf-maiden. But she'd learnt quite a bit from her: about the goblins' warlikeness, their propensity to be a nuisance at best and a menace at worst to decent folks, and of course, the terrible thing that had befallen Elrond's wife many years before. In fact had she been Elrond, well, she might not initiate a war of genocide against goblins, but she'd come pretty darn close.  
  
Now Elrond sat back, looking awfully thoughtful. Then he drew a long, long breath.  
  
“It's a long and sorrowful history, I'm afraid,” said Elrond. “So long, indeed, that were we to discuss it in any satisfactory degree it would take us months.”  
  
“I guessed as much,” said Akagi. “I'm not going to ask you too much about the details.” _It might be quite hurtful to him_ , she thought. “But if I may, let me ask you just one thing: What is your ultimate goal, pursuing war with them?”  
  
“It is a most curious question,” said Elrond, “and you would pardon me for answering a question with another: why are you inquiring me this?”  
  
“You've been at war for... many thousand years, so I've heard.” she said. “A war with no plausible end in sight is terrible thing. To prevent that kind of horror... Elrond- _san_ , that was the reason why I was made and my sister too. To strike a decisive blow where we can, and restore peace through such overwhelming application of force as to break the enemy entirely-”  
  
Here Akagi's voice fell to a whisper. She picked up her mug and drained it with a long gulp. That was not a tangent she had originally intended. The dinner table with a lord in another world was not a good place to start a discourse over the nature of _Kantai Kassen_ and the whys and what-ifs of the Pacific. And yet... she couldn't quite help it – such was in her nature that when she saw a war without a clear way to win she'd start asking questions. Perhaps Elrond was somewhat aware of what Akagi was saying. Perhaps he was entirely clueless. But he clasped his hands, and looked lost in his rumination.  
  
“I- What I'm trying to say is, what is your end goal? Containment? Domination? Or complete eradication of the goblins?”  
  
At this Elrond's face turned up. He regarded her with a kind of fondness like a teacher at a student too eager.  
  
“I would not call our troubles a _war_ ,” he said at last. “It is more an endless _struggle_ against the Shadow that is inherent in this world of ours, that shall not come to an end ere it be remade. You can strike a decisive victory against evil, and we have on several occasions, but never so complete as to ensure complete bliss.”  
  
Akagi inched towards the edge of her seat. “But there has to be an end you envision.”  
  
“There is,” said Elrond, “but it is not an end to a _war_ like you think it is, but the end of our – the _Eldar's –_ role in it.”  
  
Now Elrond stood up, and wheeled around the table to the window. He gestured Akagi and Asashio to look yonder: to the West where the stars blazed against the dark sky.  
  
“The _Calaquendi_ , such as I am, ever long for the light upon a distant shore where we shall set sail, never to return,” he said. “But we, or least of all _I_ , can yet leave, for we are needed still. All my kind can do is to strengthen those who would come after – Men and the freedom accorded to them by the One.”  
  
“If that is your wish,” said Akagi, “then why ask for our help? If your hope is merely to hold the line with no end whatsoever, then what use are we, who are made to strike hard and swift-”  
  
“Because such powers as you have may be used for good as it can be used for ill,” said Elrond. “Gleaming spears and bright swords and swift arrows may protect and inspire just as well as they may kill and destroy. And that, my Lady Akagi, is our end goal – to inspire. To nurture hope in those who would need it.”  
  
“Hope, you said...”  
  
“Hope, indeed,” said Elrond. “And if you would ask Gandalf one of those days, he would be quite keen on telling you it's kindness and loyalty and friendship that cultivates hope more so than force of arms – or a decisive victory. And that is why _I_ ask not that you fight our battles for us – no, that is a task for others who shall come to inherit this world from the Eldar who shall forevermore vanish.”  
  
Now he sat back down, and his gaze swept all over her. “But if you could stand on their side and not against them, give them hope rather than despair, and assist them so they shall falter not in a course most perilous that they must eventually walk...” he said. “That is all I would ever ask from you.”  
  
To protect and support mankind. Indeed, that was why Akagi had been brought back: the ship that had symbolized terror and destruction and the finest of Imperial Japan, now a protector.  
  
“Why would you trust that we would do so?” asked Akagi, and suddenly she felt his gaze bore deep into her, as though he could see not only the woman in red _hakama_ and white _gi_ munching his granary away, but what Akagi _was_ behind it: a warship, made by warmongers for a war of aggression.  
  
What he said then all but confirmed it. “Because I see it in your eyes,” he said. “And not only you, but every single of you _Ciryanetti_.” Here he shifted a bit, and regarded Asashio, who also started nodding. “You've seen war, both justified and not quite as much, now doing harm to innocents and now protecting them from it, as tools who could not help but to comply the order so given to you. If the choice comes to you as to for whom and against whom you would fight, as it does now, with the time given to you and the freedom to choose, I say, you would choose well.”  
  
“I've already made up my mind the moment I was summoned,” she said. “Akagi of the First Carrier Division shall fight to protect those who needs protecting.”  
  
“Then by all means please do so,” said Elrond. “Because winning a war is such an easy thing, compared to fostering hope where it is but ambers, so that it may become a flame imperishable.”  
  
For a while there was silence. Akagi looked to her left; Asashio was going a bit misty in the eyes. “Hope,” murmured the little destroyer. She was pretending – poorly – to concentrate on her yogurt.  
  
_But that's all right. I understand_.  
  
Then, because the ruminant air was getting too much even for her, Akagi's first way out was _food_. On reflex her hand moved to the tray... and grabbed empty air. The horror! The last of the bread was gone, and she'd gobbled up all of the eggs and bacon, and the salad was down for the count first thing, and the last of the milk was gone too!  
  
Now she stared sheepishly and uncomfortably at the completely empty tray.  
  
“Umm...” she finally said with a blush. “Seconds please?”

 

***


	19. Part the Nineteenth

 

**PART THE NINETEENTH**  
  
**IN WHICH BEGAN THE STORY OF THE BLIZZARD, THE DIAMOND AND THE THIRTEEN DORFS**

  
  
  
The sun had barely risen when Fubuki had her intelligence fairies start punching out a coded message. The room was quiet at that time of day but for the soft breathing from the three occupied beds and the occasional sleep-talking (mostly random utterances of “poi”). It was a perfect time for the composition of strategically significant correspondence.  
  
“ _With regards to the local economy,_ ” she began dictating, “ _my discovery has been less than optimistic_.”  
  
The Bree-folks, now that Fubuki had taken the time to get to know them, were a simple enough sort and not extremely industry-minded. On one hand that had made Bree an extremely pleasant place to live. On the other, its markets (if they could even be called such) had already been well saturated by existing trade. To be fair the locals did have a good eye for value, and made a chunk of their profit off trade with the land further South.  
  
There were interesting intels, too, though none of which were particularly lucrative:  
  
That there was a more fertile land about a week's travel to the West apparently called the Shire, (though trade between that land and Breeland had fallen on hard time of late).  
  
That once every couple weeks a few dwarven traders would come along the road from the Blue Mountains carrying wares: things made of silver and gold and gems and iron in exchange for food (which the dwarves never bothered to grow for some reason).  
  
That very rarely certain folks would come from the distant South, demanding large quantities of low-quality iron and lumber in exchange for leather, hunting trophies, meat and baubles of questionable value made from teeth and claws.  
  
And perhaps most importantly, the surrounding country was not as safe as it seemed. There were ruffians on the road, and honest folks avoid the towers and ruins alone the East-West Road as though they had been haunted. The less spoken about the local transport infrastructure, the better, Fubuki thought – lest her start sounding like an imperialistic IJA-affiliated politician harping on about the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere back in the days.  
  
“ _Recommendations... my recommendations are..._ ”  
  
Fubuki leaned back against the chair and rubbed her forehead. She bit the end of her pencil and groaned inside; His Majesty willing, she was bad at this. Economics, after all, had been far from her and her crews' thoughts.  
  
“ _Please skip that part, I'll come back when I have got something worth adding,_ ” she broadcast to her intelligence fairies and got back a chorus of 'desu' in agreement.  
  
Now she turned about, and gazed from one end of the room to the other in the darkness.  
  
A soft smile of a sort came to her – everything was so peaceful.  
  
Mutsuki was smiling in her sleep, and so was Yuudachi on the opposite bed. All sorts of fun things were probably coursing through Kongou's head as she slumbered, too. She'd had such fun in the common room chatting up complete strangers those last few days, collecting enough information for several chapters in a book about local customs if she had so liked. Last night she'd come back with a notebook full of notable persons and happenings – she'd handed them to Fubuki with a wink and a very cryptic “ _Don't tell Ashikaga what I've been up to_.”  
  
Perhaps Kirishima had sent them on this mission as a sort of holiday all along, she thought, and closed her eyes and tried to relax for a second or two. But hardly had the thought of _rest_ registered than she heard a hearty lot of noises from the front of the inn, echoing through the closed window.  
  
At once Fubuki's eyes snapped open. She crept to the window-sill and quietly peeled the shutter from the frame, and peeked down at the street as quietly and stealthily as she could.  
  
Below she saw a most fascinating sight. A significant group clad in dusty cloaks and hoods of many colors were pulling towards the shopfront. Fubuki counted: fifteen in total, mounted on fifteen ponies each laden with bags and sacks of all shapes and sizes. Thirteen (Fubuki counted, too), were short-statured, broad-shouldered and long-bearded: as typical of dwarves as those she had met over the last week. The last was a tiny and round sort of fellow, wearing neither shoes nor beard, looking awfully gloom and yawning all the way.  
  
At the head of the formation was a much taller old man, with that stereotypically wizardly hat and beard and long robes and staff and everything. He dismounted his considerably taller horse, dusted his long sleeves, and gestured the dwarves to head into the building.  
  
Fubuki had had half a mind to wake Mutsuki up and see if she recognized the old man. She decided against it: Mutsuki's sleeping face was too adorable and saintly to disturb, on one hand. On the other, given all the circumstances it was impossible for the man _not_ to be that enigmatic Gandalf who'd been leading them about those last few weeks.  
  
She waited until the last man in the company had swaggered into the house – an extraordinarily fat dwarf lugging about a heavy sack. Fubuki held her breath – _Gandalf's company has arrived_ , she thought, and made every attempt to convince herself not to press her ears against the floorboard.  
  
Not that it would be necessary: soon much clamor and merry-making began underneath her, as noisy as the traffic outside the Naval District on a bad day. They talked, they laughed, and they started singing in their deep humming voices (no musical instruments, thankfully. A rudely awakened Kongou is a rude Kongou, period).  
  
At once Fubuki didn't know what to do. There was Kirishima's order _not_ to seek the wizard out, on the one hand. On the other, Fubuki's own curiosity was sinking her.  
  
Tick, tock, went that internal clock inside her bridge. One minute. Five. Ten.  
  
Now a chorus of heavy footsteps spreading into the opposite wing, and soon the noise down in the lobby had now faded. No more singing, no more laughing, no more low dwarven voices humming.  
  
Finally, finally, Fubuki's curiosity got the better of her. _Maybe if I just steal a peek?_  
  
She opened the door as quietly as she could. It gave her a spine-chilling _creak_ that could have well woken up the entire room. She covered her mouth and spun around in horror.  
  
No movement visible except for another of Yuudachi's soft _poi._  
  
She sighed and rubbed her chest. _That was close_ , she thought, squeezed out of the tiny gap and then pushed the door back in place again. The creak was a lot smaller this time – thank the heavens and the local deities for small favors _._  
  
Fubuki crept down the common room. The sun had yet to rise still, and the common room was still draped in the screen of dim light provided by the overhanging lantern. She stopped just shy of the doorway.  
  
There was nobody in the common room but the old man and the innkeeper. Each was minding his own business: Barnabas Butterbur was taking stock of his drinks and cleaning the tables full of plates and breadcrumbs. Fubuki could swear his stock of booze – or at least the bottles on the shelf behind the counter – had just taken a big hit.  
  
As for the old man?  
  
He was still sitting at one of the corner-tables. For a moment he seemed only content with smoking off his pipes: many smoke rings had yet risen to the common room's ceiling, wafting out through the open air-holes lining the wall, colorful and oddly-shaped, like animals giving chase to one another. That was the only bit of _magic_ he performed, if it could even be called that. Part of Fubuki felt so disappointed: she'd thought he'd be more active – do something curious, speak something curious, that sort of thing, rather than passing his time like every other old man alone on the porch.  
  
At long last the old man set down his pipe, and clapped his hands slowly – but emphatically.  
  
“I had thought,” he said, seemingly to no one in particular, “that ships as a rule would prefer open spaces beneath the sun, and not dark places under eaves and behind doors.”  
  
Fubuki's every boiler _sputtered_. _He knew?_  
  
“If you wish for counsel, then step into the light,” he said again. “If not, well, do not let me keep you – the night goes on for another hour or two still.”  
  
There was nothing she could do but to walk out into full view. There the old man was looking at her – without judging, thankfully. He simply nodded once in acknowledgement, and then gestured her to take a seat opposite to him.  
  
Fubuki did as she was suggested. Her face was a little red. “I-”  
  
“Never you mind,” said the old man. He waved his hand. “I'm sorry I haven't caught your name,” he said. “There are plenty many of you in the district of yours, you would pardon an old man for letting his manners lapse.”  
  
“M-my name is Fubuki, sir,” she said. “Name-ship of the Special-type Fubuki-class destroyer.” She had had half a mind to salute out of habit. “I've... I've heard a lot about you, Gandalf- _san_. I'm in your care.” Polite, deferential, unoffensive. The Japanese way.  
  
“Care indeed!” said the wizard mirthfully. “Indeed, I am Gandalf, and indeed you flatter me. Though I am as much in your care as you are in mine: For I am but an old man, and you, well, you are a war-vessel bristling with all panoplies and tools for the unpleasant business of battle.”  
  
Fubuki could feel a comical-sized sweatdrop forming at the back of her head. “Um...” _What to say, what to say?_ The comical sweatdrop only grew in size.  
  
Now Gandalf set his pipe down on the table. “At any rate,” he said. “I hope you aren't opposed to breaking your fast before the sun rises.” He tilted himself towards the counter. “Master Barnabas, my good man? Just a simple breakfast of a sort, for two – or better, for four – on the double if you can and in good time if you cannot.”  
  
Like lightning the innkeeper rushed to the table, and quickly set down plates, forks, knives and a large mug for each.  
  
Gandalf nodded with a grateful smile. “Thank you!” he said to the innkeeper, then looked back upon Fubuki. “Good old Barnabas might take a while. That's a good man - got an eye for pipeweeds and ale alike should your superior ever want to trade in the sort. I advised him a while ago to find some good, hardy helpers in the kitchen. A hobbit or two would have done his service a lot of good and even more convenience!”  
  
Fubuki could but nod. All the while her palms were balled into fists. Many ideas of what she should say and what she should not were coursing through her bridge and overwhelming her fairy assistants. It was hard to prepare talking-points so spontaneously for a meeting with an enigma who seemingly knew more about her than he had any right to.  
  
Then the innkeeper came back, with a large jar in his hand. He poured a generous helping into either mug. The smell of ale made Fubuki a little queasy: she'd made up her mind not to try the local drink, and now her straight-laced attitude was doing her no favors.  
  
Gandalf had no such predilection. He raised high his mug. “Let us drink, if nothing else, then for a guess of mine that turned out right,” he said. “I've heard from the good Barnabas, you've brought a small team along.”  
  
Fubuki's clenched fist went a bit white. “Yes, sir,” she said. “But that doesn't mean- I mean, I'm afraid we aren't quite here to join your adventure.” Her curtness amazed herself. “Um... pardon me, I mean no offense-”  
  
The wizard looked perfectly cordial. “And no offense should ever be taken, nor pardon be asked, for speaking the truth,” said the wizard. “Whether or not you've come at my summon doesn't matter very much, at any rate far less than the fact that you've come to Bree at all.”  
  
Fubuki swallowed deep her “ _Eeeh? Why?_ ” childish an outburst as it was, and instead went for the far more professional and reliable-sounding “Why would you want us to be _here_?”  
  
The wizard produced from his robe a long, weathered tube and lit it with a spark at his fingertip “Because, my dear miss,” he said, “your coming here is a sign that your leadership has deemed it fit to reach out to the rest of Eriador and beyond.”  
  
Fubuki raised her brow quizzically, but the wizard didn't seem to mind her lapse in manner very much. He picked up his pipe again, refilled it with what looked like powdered tobacco from his pouch, and busied himself for a minute with a long, happy smoke. Once more he released a trio of entertainingly fancy smoke puffs that rose to the ceiling and out of the air-holes on the wall, now mimicking the likeness of warriors bearing a banner in black and white.  
  
Then he set down the pipe, and looked her in the eyes.  
  
“Middle-earth is a beautiful place and her denizens quite numerous and varied,” he said. “You would be hard pressed to settle down unless you seek out other folks who may need you – and from whom you may, surprisingly, found yourself in need of aid also.”  
  
Fubuki swallowed hard. Not hard enough, apparently, to bring her question down with it. “But why would you care?” she asked.  
  
“That would be the business of wizards,” said Gandalf. “But if it would help you at ease, then know this: I do very much wish to be a friend of yours, and for as long as you would do no ill to the free peoples of this land I wish you all success. In fact, I would go so far as to aid you – by sending you on this adventure with us if you would have it.”  
  
“Like I said: much as I am grateful, I must turn down the invitation.” said Fubuki firmly. “We've got strict order to-”  
  
Now the wizard regarded her curiously. “You didn't come to Bree to settle down, did you? Or set up shops on a long-term basis, no? You are heading home soon, back to your 'naval district', am I right?”  
  
Fubuki blinked. A chibi Fubuki was screaming deep inside her. “W-why would you say that, sir?”  
  
“Why, because you are staying right here, at the one and only Prancing Pony!” said Gandalf, raising his mug again. “Now, offering free rooms for folks you know would come by is more than just hospitality – it offers insights. For instance, had you got a long-term arrangement or a contract of a sort, for work and accommodation and payment perhaps, you would certainly have turned my offer down and lodged at wherever you've made such an agreement. Likewise also, had you been entirely opposed to having anything to deal with me and the businesses of mine.”  
  
Fubuki felt at once like kicking herself. By accepting the wizard's offer of free bed and meals at all, they'd already made themselves too easily read.  
  
She'd expected some more smug comments on what a bad undercover agent Fubuki had made of herself. None of that ever came: the wizard didn't say anything for some time. He leaned back against the wall, as if to put more space between himself and Fubuki. Whether it was a purposeful gesture, Fubuki had no way to know, but she was grateful for the breathing space all the same. The problem was _how_ to answer.  
  
And then it appeared to her there was nothing set in stone that would have bound her fleet to whatever adventures Gandalf was planning. No contract. No agreement. No treaty. Not even a _memorandum of understanding_ if even that. There was nothing stopping her from turning back and slamming their figurative door at his face.  
  
That was the most problematic thing. That the wizard had gone so far offering his goodwill that returning him with anything but goodwill in kind would be such a terribly _dishonorable_ thing that Fubuki would have found it hard to stomach much less do. (To say nothing about how betraying a wizard's expectations might lead to unexpected complications also)  
  
And then the door flung _open_ and slammed into the wall.  
  
“Hey, hey, not fair, Bucky!” cried an all too energetic voice. “You never said anything about having a secret meeting with a wizard!”  
  
The wizard's epic brows jerked. Fubuki's eyelids fluttered in bewilderment. Count on Kongou to appear where she was least expected. Her bed-hair was riotous, and she'd only thrown some water over her face, but she was twinkling with so much energy. She plomped herself down next to Fubuki in a single bound. “So, what's brewing?”  
  
Gandalf blinked once, and twice, and Fubuki thought he was staring directly not at Kongou but at the vast clump of her fairies scurrying about.  
  
At long last he lifted his eyes to meet hers. “Miss... Diamond, I suppose?”  
  
Kongou made an affronted face. “It's _Kongou_ , my good sir! Ko-n-go-u, _dess_!” she exclaimed. “Oh, and by the by, thanks for the bed and breakfast and all. Pretty darn good place and a top-notch pub at that!”  
  
“Very well, Miss _Kongou_ ,” said Gandalf. “And as for your thanks, well, I do what I can, to help those who would help us.”  
  
Fubuki began to sweat for real. “Kongou-san?” she tried to whisper. “Um-” ' _Please don't say anything we'll regret later'_ was what she really wanted to say. She didn't know how to put it, and swallowed the sentence whole.  
  
But Kongou gave her a wink that said, _let me handle this_ , and at once she didn't know if trusting this particular battleship was a good idea. Because as _terrible_ an idea it was to have Kongou handle any kind of serious talks, it wasn't like Fubuki could have done anything but (try to) turn down Gandalf awkwardly.  
  
Instead of complete and utter disaster in spoken form, however, what Fubuki heard was Kongou's voice _changing_ to resemble a noblewoman's tone with a corresponding noblewoman's giggle.  
  
“Now, my dear Master Gandalf, we are truly at a quandary,” she said. “You have guessed quite rightly: we'd like to engage more with the local folks, and in more than one way at that! We – or at least _I –_ would like to help you, as you have helped us (or tried to). And last but not least, _I_ don't dislike you.” There was a cheeky glint in her eyes. “All the same, you'd see it is... unwise, for a foreign power to at once jump so enthusiastically at local business – as you want us to do – without at least knowing what we're getting into, and without knowing the consequences. Accidents and misunderstandings can happen...”  
  
Gandalf's brows suddenly became a little bushier. “Indeed.” He nodded. “In that case, what would you propose?”  
  
“Why not do some simple exchanges?” she said. “You tell us more – in full, if you can – about what you want us to do for you, and I'll tell you something about what we want in Bree. Honestly.”  
  
“I think there's no need for such an exchange,” said Gandalf. “Not, at any rate, when I suppose I could guess well what your purpose here is.”  
  
“Could you now?” said Kongou with another noblewoman's smile. “I'm pretty sure my sister has given my dear Miss Fubuki some secret order or two...”  
  
Before Fubuki could protest, Kongou's radar was quickly twitching. Her head tilted towards the direction of the door. And, interestingly, Gandalf was glancing at the same direction.  
  
“Well now,” said Gandalf. “Looks like we've got more than one eavesdropper this morning!”


	20. Part the Twentieth

**PART THE TWENTIETH**  
  
**IN WHICH BILBO BAGGINS (ALMOST) GOT KNOCKED DOWN WITH EXTREME PREJUDICE**

  
  
  
Bilbo Baggins had had some of the worst days in his life.  
  
No – the Tookish part in him swiftly censored and censured himself – that would be ungrateful to say.  
  
There certainly was, at any rate, much fun to be had riding ponies across the country while singing merry songs along with a rowdy and carefree dwarven company of varying degrees of helpfulness. There was much fun to be had seeing a little of what lay beyond the Brandywine and into Breeland. There _was_ a lot of fun traveling through the night, and end up in an inn just before sunrise.  
  
But there was no fun in being bowled over by a Big Folk woman running swifter than a horse with a meaner charge than a great elephant on a romp.  
  
The good Master Baggins would be quick to tell you, ladies and gentle-hobbits, that it hadn't been his fault, no sir! He was walking around the corridor towards the room built for hobbits in this inn, particularly happy with himself that such homelike comfort existed far from home, when wham, wham and wham! Down the corridor charged that Big Folk woman with such noise she would have woken up the Old Took from his grave. She very nearly slammed head-first into the poor hobbit, and would have rightly stomped him flat as a hobbit-pancake had bad come to worse.  
  
As the graces would have it, Bilbo was miraculously round and alive (though needless to say very shaken). As the graces would have it also, the Tookish blood inside him decided that letting this go uninvestigated simply wouldn't do, no sir!  
  
He eyed the two Big Folk women suspiciously. One was rather bebothered and confusticated: her lips were trembling and she was shooting pleading glances at her companion – who _was_ that inconsiderate, ill-educated, poor-mannered woman that almost knocked him aside like a golfball!  
  
Except she was now sitting perfectly straight like a mild-mannered noblewoman with an intrigue or three. She looked thoughtful – pensive almost, now looking at the table and now looking at Gandalf – and spoke in a perfectly amicable voice about how they could share secrets with each other. And secrets, why, hobbits were as a rule curious creatures. How could Bilbo have turned down the opportunity to listen on?  
  
And then that queerly-shaped hair decoration on her head twitched. It was not until Gandalf said something to the tune of “eavesdropper” that Bilbo realized he'd been found.  
  
Next thing he saw was the frightening woman pushing back her seat and walking down the aisle straight towards the open door behind which he was hiding. Bilbo saw then a huge shadow – for his size – cast upon him. A pair of bright, fierce and mischievous eyes was staring down at him.  
  
Bilbo had half a mind to run away. Not that it would have helped if he tried: a long arm had shot towards his back from the front, and Bilbo's feet suddenly felt light. He was now lifted three feet above the ground by the nape of his collar, like a kitten being carried away by her mother.  
  
Before he could properly react, he had been inexorably escorted into the common room, and brought back to the table. There was Gandalf, and with him Bilbo's only chance for escape.  
  
“Gandalf!” he cried. "Help me!"  
  
“Eh?” said the woman taking him prisoner. “Do you know him, Gandalf?”  
  
Now Gandalf looked about Bilbo - somewhat amusedly. “Please, do put him down, Miss Kongou,” said Gandalf. “I would prefer our burglar unhurt and untouched by trauma as long as I can (and preferably not until the dragon's door itself, if I can help it)!”  
  
“Eh? Burglar?” She lifted him up like a bird of prey examining a helpless critter, until their eyes were level. “So that's why he's been listening on us, eh?”  
  
“Um... Kongou- _san_?” said the younger woman. “I-isn't that a bit too...” She seemed to swallow her tongue for a blink of an eye. Her face turned a little red. “-too much for him already? I-if Gandalf- _san_ has vouched he isn't an enemy...”  
  
“Oh.” She took one last stare at him, and gave him a big nod. “Sure, I guess?” She put him on the last empty chair at the table – but not before giving him a stern _stare_.  
  
“There, that's a good lady, Miss Fubuki,” said Gandalf. “You must pardon my dear friend here. He's new to this whole _burglar_ profession (though not that new to its skills), and is doing all he can to practice the art. If all goes well his skill would be needed later.”  
  
“Still,” said the woman called Kongou, still fixing her stare on him. “It _is_ impolite to listen to other people talking from behind closed doors, you know.”  
  
Now Bilbo would have liked to point out that one, the door to the common room was most definitely _not_ closed when he came behind it. And two, he hadn't even managed to catch the women's _names_ , much less any secret juicy business they might be having with the wizard. But then again, Bilbo wasn't so fond of being hoisted into the air again, no sir! So he stayed quiet.  
  
Just then the innkeeper came around with more ale, and Bilbo thought nobody would mind if he would impolitely help himself to some.  
  
Indeed, nobody minded. Gandalf's head was even nodding just so subtly, as if to tell him he could have all the ale he wanted.  
  
“Now, Master Baggins, I thought you've already been abed,” said Gandalf. “I thought this would be a good time to discuss with my friends here a business of which we are in the very middle. And it's quite a difficult negotiation too, if you would ask them.”  
  
With the women alternating looks at him, Bilbo thought it would do wonders for his longvity and his hairy feet being kept on the ground by not asking too many questions.  
  
It turned out he didn't have to ask any in the first place. Once again the door at the end of the common room swung open, and inside shuffled not one, but two dwarf-sized shadows.  
  
“What _is_ the matter, Gandalf?” said Thorin, because it was really him. He hadn't changed out yet, and was clad still in his travel-cloak and hood covered in dew. Behind him was Balin, similarly unchanged out into more comfy wears. They looked, if Bilbo was to estimate, one part annoyed, one part curious, and one part rather (and rightfully) tired.  
  
They swept towards the table at the corner, and no sooner had they came within an arm's length of Gandalf, their attention shifted from the wizard to the two women sitting opposite him.  
  
Gandalf sat motionlessly: though his eyes did twinkle in amusement as the dwarves came close. “Ah, yes, Master Thorin,” he said. “My apologies for the uncontrolled (and uncontrollable) commotion.”  
  
Thorin did not look at Gandalf. “Who are these... women?” he asked, looking now at Miss Kongou and now at Miss Fubuki.  
  
At once tension rose in the room. Or at least it seemed to: that sort of atmosphere tended to arise when a gruff dwarf would suddenly find himself surrounded by several pairs of blinkless eyes as though he were a strange object.  
  
“Just a few acquaintances,” said Gandalf, “who happen to be staying at this very inn.” He lowered his voice. “In fact, by _sheer coincidence_ they are the acquaintances I've been telling you about.”  
  
Despite Gandalf saying so, Bilbo thought there was nothing coincidental about their meeting. Well, there was something, and that was himself: somehow he couldn't imagine Gandalf having expected him to dangle off the iron grip of this monstrously tall and strong and _terrible_ woman because of some (yet) harmless eavesdropping.  
  
“You've got interesting choices of acquaintances, I must say,” he said. “Choices that don't do our quest very much good.”  
  
“As the common words of wisdom goes on the road, Master Thorin,” said Gandalf without missing a beat. “ _All that is gold does not glitter_.”  
  
The terrible woman's eyelids were twitching rapidly. Her friend was desperately shooting her glances that obviously said “ _calm down_ ” for anyone who bothered to look. Thorin didn't take it at all into consideration, or so Bilbo thought.  
  
“You've told me they could help us on the quest,” said Thorin, surveying the women. “These women? Who look so _willowy_ and untouched by travel dust? Help us with a quest with a _dragon_ sitting at the end of it?”  
  
“That I have, and I still stand by what I said,” said Gandalf. There was a spark in Gandalf's eyes that was half displeasure and half – if Bilbo read him right – ' _are you bloody out of your mind, dwarf?_ '  
  
“Well, then, I'm quite curious!” said Thorin, and now he looked back at the two woman, one at a time, so thoroughly. “What can you do, women?”  
  
Now the fearsome woman stood up. “Hey, we can talk about what we are able to do later,” said Miss Kongou. “What we can talk about _right_ _now-_ ” She harrumphed loudly. “-is that I've heard a few things about you – Thorin, isn't it?”  
  
When Thorin nodded that haughty nod as was his wont, Miss Kongou simply picked up Bilbo's empty wooden ale cup from across the table, and with a series of _cracks_ and _crunches_ of her palms reduced it to the consistency of fine brown sugar.  
  
It was all Bilbo could do not to faint and murmur “ _Struck by lightning! Struck by lightning!_ ” Gandalf, too, was taken a bit aback – literally: he was inching just _slightly_ from the woman. “Miss Kongou, I don't think a threat-” he began.  
  
“And what, pray tell, have you heard?” said Thorin. His face had lost a bit of colour, and who could have blame him? Well, apart for the uncalled-for rudeness, that was.  
  
Now the woman narrowed her eyes. She was pouring the content of her palm out into one of the other mugs, and looked through the curtain of falling wood-grain at the great Thorin Oakenshield himself.  
  
“Let's say,” she said, “you were okay in my book to start with.” She rubbed her hands clean of dust. “Prince of a lost realm. Vagabond on the road. On a mission to reclaim his homeland. Tell you what, that's pretty darn romantic, I've read my share of novels.” She paused. “That is, until you started _speaking_.” The intensity of the exchange of stares made Bilbo gulp.  
  
“I speak my mind as I should,” said Thorin, “For which I offer no apology.”  
  
“You could - _Thorin-san,_ isn't it? You could apologize for being _wrong_ ,” said the other woman softly. but Bilbo had lived long enough to distinguish between meekness and silent anger. This instance was the latter. “We haven't even said to _want_ any part in this adventure of yours. And about that _willowy_ part... please do _not_ make unfounded assumptions!”  
  
Now Gandalf rapped his long finger against the table. “Ladies, gentlemen!” he said. “Let's not lose our patience here. You've all got a part to play (least if I have anything to say about it) in what is to come-”  
  
“Well, you heard Bucky,” said Miss Kongou. “We haven't even said yes.”  
  
Now Balin tugged _hard_ on Thorin's sleeve. He'd pushed himself to the fore before Thorin could object – and from the unhumoured look of his face Thorin would have a _lot_ of objections.  
  
“If my cousin would not apologize, miladies, then I would apologize on his behalf - for it is not becoming of a dwarf to unduly insult a woman,” he said, and bowed down with his hat in hand. “All the same I beg your understanding. He has been quite troubled, you see, about our adventure – I shall not hide what it is, for it seems you are well aware of our plight.” Here Balin drew a stiff breath – and his face only relaxed when the two women seemed to have sat back down and kept their fiery gaze on him rather than on Thorin. “My cousin Thorin is perhaps too taken with anxiousness, and not merely because of the _dragon_ he had mentioned. Terrible things seem to stalk the road of late, and we are beginning to doubt and despair of our goal-”  
  
Now this instantly and irreversibly drew the younger woman's attention.  
  
“Did you say... terrible things?” she said, suddenly sounding terribly alarmed. “Could you tell me more, uh-”  
  
“Balin, miss, at your service,” he introduced himself very quickly, and then withdrew back to the sullen dwarven story-telling voice once more. “Indeed the tales I have heard are tall and incredible. Tales off the roads are as a rule spine-chilling and all the same liable to be exaggerated, but these – if but a fraction of it were true, then we would be in a bad spot indeed.”  
  
Just with those words he'd got the two women's full attention. At once Bilbo did not know what to credit: Balin's charisma as a story-teller, or the implication he was bringing forward.  
  
“Ragged men on the road – perhaps Rangers, perhaps not – have brought stories of terrible cave trolls in those part of the world where they yet walk. Only this time the horror was not in the devastation that they wrought, but that they suffered!” Here he began to wave his hands about. “Imagine a big tall troll, immensely strong and implacably tough, as we know they are. Now imagine such a beast found in pieces, like something altogether terrible had ripped them apart limbs from limbs and set fire to the remains!” There was a gasp. Actually, two: the one was Bilbo's. “And, this is even more astonishing! It didn't happen just once, and they said there is a place near the Misty Mountains where an astute traveler could find the remains of a dozen trolls similarly destroyed!”  
  
Bilbo had expected the women to go white in the face in fright, as he was rapidly losing color himself.  
  
He couldn't have been more wrong.  
  
Miss Kongou barely hid an embarrassed giggle. “Ah.” Her face turned a bit red, not white. “I guess some of that was _my_ doing. They were throwing rocks at us!”  
  
At once both Thorin and Balin looked to Gandalf. What they were probably awaiting was perhaps a snide comment, or a snipe, or any of that witty sarcasm the wizard had no shortage of. Instead all Gandalf showed them was a sullen face and and equally sullen nod.  
  
Then he stood up, and spun around towards the counter.  
  
“Master Barnabas, my good man, we would appreciate a good deal of privacy,” said Gandalf darkly. “Like the dwarves should perchance say: Dark for dark business, and dark because what we are about to see should not leave this room – not at any rate unless absolutely necessary.”  
  
The innkeeper took the hint. At once he set aside the trays full of food he was about to cart to the table. He ran towards the doors on either side, and closed it shut. He put out two of the three lamps. He drew the curtains up – just on time, for the earliest light of day was starting to emerge through the horizon. Then, wordlessly, he left the room. It felt almost like Gandalf had asked this of him on several occasions before this.  
  
Now Gandalf turned towards the fearsome woman. “Miss Kongou,” he said. “If you could perhaps show us _what_ you are.” His eye glinted in the candlelight. “I would owe you a great favour to be repaid at a later date.”  
  
Then there was a defiant smile on her lips, no, not defiant, but so full of confidence it became frightening again.  
  
“K-Kongou- _san_?” said Miss Fubuki. “I-is that wise?”  
  
Miss Kongou looked quite ecstatic. “Might as well go the whole way,” she said. Her voice was altogether too energetic it made Bilbo's feet hair raise.  
  
From her back a great piece of iron appeared, as broad as she was tall and as thick as a dwarf from shoulder to shoulder. Upon it there were many oddly-shaped objects, dominated by large, glinting tubes fixed on great iron armoured boxes like safes. At once Bilbo thought of the firework-launchers in his distant memory: except those tubes were so large and so dark and so _absolutely frightening_.  
  
“The fast battleship _Kongou_ , second remodel, at your service!” she said. "Specialized in making short work of, among others, cruisers, convoys, airfields, silly airplanes that fly too low..." She chuckled in a deeply self-deprecating tone. "Just not submarines."  
  
"You are not- you are not a woman." said Thorin. "What sort of sorcery is this?" Balin was more quiet, but his stare betrayed the same sort of morbid astonishment.  
  
"Oh, I don't know, the sort that goes BOOM?" said Miss Kongou, patting on one of the the large pipes (barrel?) veering to her side. There was an altogether too eager grin on her face. "Let's say when this baby goes off you don't want to be _anywhere_ within a hundred-yard radius of ground zero. Or five hundred, just so to be safe."  
  
Bilbo's imagination began connecting the dots, and suddenly it dawned to him exactly _what_ happened to the unfortunate trolls.  
  
“Trolls,” murmured Bilbo. “Blasted apart. Set on fire.”  
  
And when the last line was drawn, an indescribeable, existential dread rose within him, and at once he realized the only thing in the room keeping Bilbo, nay, the _whole_ of Bree in one piece was the woman's unwillingness to use _whatever that monstrosity was_ on them.  
  
He understandably felt a bit light in the head. Which was to say, everything was going slightly blurry.  
  
“Nope.”  
  
Bilbo Baggins, the brave burglar-to-be, fell face-first on the table with a mighty _thwump.  
_


	21. Part the Twenty-First

**PART THE TWENTY-FIRST**  
  
**IN WHICH THE ADMIRAL RECALLED THE RAT TRANSPORTATION**

  
  
  
Admiral Tetsuna Ojime sat back against his comfy chair. His eyelids were heavy: he had been woken at five by an emergency dispatch; it was now nearly eleven in the evening and he had had not a wink of sleep in between.  
  
The last report from Fubuki's fleet was stretched upon his table, documenting to the minute of their encounter with the wizard Gandalf, and whatever happened after that.  
  
He went through the last bit once again. “ _I understand we have committed a gross misconduct of military protocol by accepting the wizard's 'hospitality' without prior approval from HQ,”_ the poor girl had written _. “As the flagship of the expedition fleet, I await any punishment as you deem necessary._ ”  
  
His order to her had been simple: _“Come back.”_  
  
He had wished to say so much more, like _don't worry_ or _it is fine_ and _everything is under control_ or _it's not your fault_. He decided against every single word of comfort he could have thought of. Fubuki was that sort of fleetgirl who was bound to overthink things, particularly when she'd realized she'd done something wrong (which she _had_ ). Doubly so when she had done something, in her own words, _unforgivable_ , and triply so when Mutsuki was with her. No, it was best to let her think he was making an absolutely neutral, mechanical sort of decision with no room for alternate interpretation.  
  
And there was another matter, altogether more important than Fubuki and Kongou's conduct with the locals in Bree-land, now sitting securely at the top of his chest of drawers-  
  
“Admiral, sir.”  
  
Into the room came Kirishima, carrying Kongou's ornate tea trays on both hands. She walked towards his table, and gently put the only teacup in front of him.  
  
“Tea time, isn't it?” Ojime said – with a humorous chuckle.  
  
The liquid inside was steaming and absolutely colorless.  
  
“We still haven't settled that tea shortage problem, sir,” said Kirishima.  
  
Ojime chuckled. “Or coffee,” he said. “The general staff is half-snoozing half the time.” It was not that he hadn't expected this, but every time he saw Kongou's tea set he'd let himself think, what if the teapot could magically summon fine tea inside it? Wishful thinking fit for a little boy, yes, but there was a part in any military man that was simply a little boy who had never grown up.  
  
He took a sip off the steaming mug, and furrowed his brows. The drink was nearly saturated with sugar – Kirishima's idea of making a _coffee substitute_ was apparently 'anything that could cause a sugar rush'. It was times like this that he was thankful he wasn't diabetic.  
  
But then he glanced at Kirishima, and realized she could use some sort of a good drink herself. The fast battleship looked particularly anxious. Not tired – there was much energy behind those clear spectacles of hers – but her fingers were fidgeting.  
  
Kirishima had indeed been quite anxious ever since she was essentially _forced_ to approve Kongou's assignment to Fubuki's advance fleet, and even more so after the small incident with the capital ship briefing about the missing fairies a week back. He had waved away her imprudence at the botched session with a _“do pay more attention next time”._ Knowing how she worked, not giving her a real punishment had done _nothing_ to restore her confidence in her ability to lead.  
  
Ojime completely sympathized. Being a secretary ship in those confusing days was not what she had been made for, just as being the highest military authority in a base-out-of-the-water in the same confusing days was not what _he_ had been trained for. And perhaps it just wasn't in his heart, as a peace-time admiral hastily promoted in a time of war, to issue punishments as liberally as his forefathers used to.  
  
Coincidentally, he would have to talk to her soon-ish on the matter of a particular punishment to be handed out.  
  
“Have you read Fubuki's last report?” Knowing the subject matter, he figured an early discussion would be better than a latter.  
  
“Yes, sir,” she said, her lips pressed thin. At once the atmosphere in the room went tense.  
  
“What do you think we should do about that?”  
  
At this Kirishima's fidgeting grew worse. “I- I honestly have no idea, sir,” she admitted.  
  
_You wouldn't have any idea in that state of mind, sure,_ thought Ojime. He glanced towards the chair on the opposite side of his table, and gestured her to take a seat. She compiled.  
  
The fidgeting did not stop.  
  
He sighed. “Are you calmer now?” he said.  
  
“I'm... I'm always calm, sir,” said Kirishima. She lied, Ojime knew that well enough. “I suspect you had thought something like this would happen.” She looked at him pleadingly. “Am I right, sir?”  
  
“What do you think?” Ojime said. “Why do you think I _specifically_ sent Fubuki and her squad?”  
  
Kirishima's fidgeting stopped – momentarily. “We are walking a fine balance between engaging this _wizard_ and not being manipulated by him. That's why you sent a team that wouldn't... cause too much damage, if they end up being led around by the nose somehow.” Her voice was disappointed, hurt and hurtful. “Which... is exactly what happened. They took his bait hook, line and sinker.”  
  
Indeed, Ojime thought. “You're selling your sister too short, Kirishima,” he said. “But you're otherwise correct.”  
  
Fleetgirls were curious creatures. They each packed enough firepower to level entire cities, but deep inside they were so _fragile:_ easy to be manipulated, easy to be deceived, easy to be _hurt_ , and with a few harmless exceptions honest to a fault. Weapons of war in the shape of young women who inspired the desire to protect, and who, at least emotionally, _did_ need some sort of protection. Paradoxical. Counterproductive. _C'est la vie_.  
  
“I... I apologize on my sister's behalf, sir,” said Kirishima.  
  
Apology? Quaint, Ojime thought, but that wasn't very helpful – at least not now and not from Kirishima. He stood up and walked round to Kirishima's side. She was looking down when his gloved palm fell gently on her shoulder. When in doubt, he had learnt, wholesome shoulder-pats did wonders for fleetgirl morale.  
  
“Did you think I sent the team I did to Rivendell for no reason?” he said. “Given the waters around here, if I simply wanted transport, a pair of destroyers could have handled all of that and more. No, I wanted to see some _real_ exchanges and engagement. Some of them _are_ making friends, and from their new contacts got us information. Not that much and not that vital, of course: I don't want them to be spies. But any knowledge of these people would be good for making informed decisions.”  
  
His plan had been, well, not unsuccessful.  
  
Ikazuchi and Inazuma had now joined the little boy Estel in exploring all the nooks and crannies about Rivendell and the valley about it – this Elrond gave tacit approval, because peaceful as the place might be, 'such an important boy with such an important destiny would do well with an extra pair of eyes at his side'.  
  
Tenryuu had struck up an odd sort of bond with an elf by the name Lindir – she had been having trouble _not_ taking personally his constant wins at sword-spars ( _Her win-loss record now stands at a distressing nil-to-sixty-eight,_ Nagato had remarked).  
  
And Hachi, after the elven loremasters gifted her a pretty robe and all but _forced_ her to wear it in their library, had enjoyed many a lessons in elven calligraphy and literature – her free-time project over the last week had been trying to translate some of their poems into Japanese (the keyword was _trying_ ).  
  
And this part was important too: None of the people they hung around had anything bad to say about Gandalf, except for his tendency to send other people into adventures for mysterious purposes.  
  
“I wanted someone to do the same with Gandalf: befriend him, and if that is impossible, then just learning what he is up to would be fine.”  
  
Funny, really, that Ojime's number-one fan-fleetgirl might not have thought much about the whole thing. Or maybe Kongou _had_ thought of it, and found it absolutely _fine_ to tag along a wizard for a time and eat and sleep on his tab in exchange; her thought process could be arcane like that. And that would _precisely_ make her work best for the purpose of _befriending_ Gandalf. So the last time she crashed into his room and gave him one of her bone-crushing hugs and plastered him with kisses he'd given her the green light to accompany Fubuki basically without questions.  
  
“But you told me to tell them not to approach Gandalf,” said Kirishima. She looked up at him guiltily.  
  
“I only asked you to tell them not to _seek out_ Gandalf,” he said. “That _was_ what you told Fubuki, wasn't it?”  
  
Now Kirishima looked very confused. “Yes, sir, but...”  
  
“Do you think a small fleet, one of which is _known_ for being terribly... overenthusiastic, can evade a wizard's gaze if he looked hard enough?” said Ojime. “The moment Fubuki sent a copy of Gandalf's letter, I knew this was going to happen. Now I don't know what kind of magic he works – and honestly I'd like to live without knowing if I could afford to – but he knows us _too_ well. Fubuki and Kongou stood no chance at all in a civil discussion with him.”  
  
Kirishima looked down again in a slow nod. “But there _has_ to be some sort of punishment. For Fubuki-chan, and... and for Kongou-neesan.” The lamplight shadow was opaquing her glasses. “They _really_ shouldn't have accepted the wizard's offers so easily. Twice, too.”  
  
“I don't disagree,” Ojime said. “They did make a few very... questionable choice, at best.” His hand left Kirishima's shoulder. “But let us not get ahead of ourselves. Let's not make any disciplinary decision until they've gotten back to base.”  
  
“As you wish, sir,” Kirishima said. Then she turned her head up at him. “Admiral, sir... please pardon me, but could I ask you a personal question?”  
  
“Go ahead,” said Ojime.  
  
“How do you feel about Fubuki-chan, sir?” Her voice fell to a whisper. “Are you... in love with her?” Her face turned a little red. “I-if it's too awkward to answer, I beg your pardon, sir!”  
  
Ah, that old rumor again, he thought, and a particularly dangerous one at that. It couldn't be helped: he _had_ been giving the Special-type Destroyer special treatment. Within professional limits and entirely justifiable, of course, but still what could be seen as special treatments – up to and including making her flagship in a fleet with not one, not two, but _three_ eligible capital ships (the fact that none of those capital ships worked quite well as flagship didn't matter that much to the gossiping public). Nagato all but asked him the same question a year back, albeit much less bluntly and far more deferentially (and not without suppressed jealousy).  
  
He would blame this sort of thing on the upper echelon and his colleagues. Merely a decade into the Abyssal War and it had been almost a given for an Admiral in charge of fleetgirls to be romantically _involved_ with _at the very least_ one of his fleetgirl subordinates. The pretense was that it made them happy, and a happy fleetgirl was thrice the military asset as an unhappy fleetgirl.  
  
Well, not this Admiral, and particularly not at this time – it had always felt unprofessional and one hundred and eight different flavors of _wrong_ to him. All the same, his heart was not iron or stone. There were reasons why he had done whatever he had done, and not all of them motivated by professionalism.  
  
So he went back to his table, clasped his hands, and looked long at Kirishima. “There are many ways you can love a person, you are aware,” he said, and this part went unsaid: _Fubuki is like the daughter I never have._ “You're a smart fleetgirl, Kirishima. You know what I mean.”  
  
For a while Kirishima stayed silent. “Is this what you've told Nagato-san too, sir?” she finally said, looking not very convinced.  
  
“Yes,” said Ojime. He had nothing to hide. “It's just like you said: a personal question, and that is all I will say. But you'll have my word, as Nagato has: that there's nothing _at all_ untoward between Fubuki and I. I swear on my badge and my family honor.”  
  
Whether Ojime convinced Kirishima or not, he wouldn't know. She only smiled. “You don't need to swear, sir,” she said. “I'll take your word.”  
  
Now Kirishima was smiling: an entirely good thing, because she was a truly lovely woman when she smiled earnestly – which had only gone rarer and rarer as her tenure as his secretary went on.  
  
Then a particularly _pressing_ task hit the good Admiral's mind.  
  
He cleared his voice. “Oh, and before you go, could I ask you to send me one of the light cruisers?” He thought for a bit. “Get me Sendai. No, on second thoughts, get me Jintsuu. Yes. Jintsuu it is. Tell her to come here in ten minutes.”  
  
“I see, sir,” said Kirishima. “Do excuse me.” Then, so quietly she walked out of the room with the tray held close.  
  
Now Ojime turned his attention to that special object in his drawer: a nearly-finished hand-written letter, addressed to the Master of Rivendell. He took it out, and spread it neatly atop the table again.  
  
It had been a real effort composing a letter by hand, so used to typing (or having others type for him) as he had been. He reread the letter once: it began with _“I hope this letter of mine finds you in good health and humor, Your Excellency,”_ and ended with _“Please accept, Your Excellency, my assurances of the highest consideration”_. Good to go, in format and formality, he thought, and put his signature at the end. Then he put it into a small envelope, layered the flap with an abundance of glue, and then put _that_ into a larger envelope and stamped his Admiral seal on the latter for good measure.  
  
Admiral Tetsuna had not intended to be a military man. No, he'd always wanted to be a student of politics. Not a politician, mind you, because he had always wanted to make promise he could actually deliver – and to be honest and sincere to all he met. But like a teacher of history who ended up being a space Fleet Admiral in an old anime he once loved, so was he a student of politics who became a leader and caretaker of fleetgirls. His background had taught him, among others, that even in politics honesty, earnestness and sincerity had their place too; on such occasions as these.  
  
He was in the middle of recollecting his old days when he heard a sharp knock at his door.  
  
“Come in,” he said, and looked straight ahead and nodded at the light cruiser Jintsuu, crisply dressed in her orange uniform, hands folded neatly in front of her. And Jintsuu had been called _precisely_ because of how reliable she was.  
  
Now Ojime left his table side as soon as the exchange of salutes was done. He went down the hall towards the light cruiser, his particularly large frame cast a shadow upon her. Good for emphasis, not very good for encouragement.  
  
“What is my mission, sir?” asked the cruiser.  
  
He handed her the large envelope.  
  
“This goes directly to Elrond- _kakka's_ hand,” he said. “You are to leave right now, take the most direct route at emergency speed. No matter what, do not stop, do not turn back, do not engage, do not turn on searchlight-” Here he stared at her and felt so _bad_ at her shuddering. _Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred zorkmids._ “Treat my letter as you would a complement of military personnel due for the front, just... just like back then.” He paused. Jintsuu was still holding her breath and looking particularly distressed. "At ease, Jintsuu. Do you have any question?"  
  
Her lips quivered. "Admiral, sir, with all due respect, but I was just wondering..." she said - nervously. "Can-can Elrond- _kakka even read Japanese_?"  
  
Ah, she got it. So very observant, as the second sister of the Sendai-class was ought to be. "No, he cannot. Not yet." he said. "You will have to read it aloud for him."  
  
The light cruiser gulped. "Then... would I need to know..."  
  
"Not yet," Ojime said. "And once you have read out the content to the recipient... treat _everything_ you have learnt from it as top secret material."  


***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, and a large chunk of the Admiral's personality, owes itself to the very excellent fic Life of Female Admiral (which may not be for everyone, for a couple of reasons). The other chunk, is my personal experience – the guy's basically my SI, if I were a fifty-something military man with a background in political sciences.
> 
> Also, this incarnation of the Admiral has watched Legend of the Galactic Heroes.


	22. Part the Twenty-Second

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \- Ciryanette (Quenya) = Ship-daughter = Kanmusu.  
> \- The thing about requesting a teacher is only part of the message, not the whole. Jintsuu is actually more shocked by the other part of it...

**PART THE TWENTY-SECOND**  
  
**IN WHICH AN ELF WAS AFRAID AND A FLEETGIRL WAS FLUMMOXED**

  
  
  
Elrohir's lonesome footsteps echoed beneath the dawn.  
  
The air of his Home was cool and welcoming, as it had ever been for three thousand years; yet his every thought was occupied with a terrible sense of overwhelming dread. He had ridden through the night like a hunted fugitive as soon as the last goblin-corpse was burnt and the last broken tree removed. For days now his mind had been all but consumed by the (yet) groundless image of his homestead burning to the ground, so terrible the aftermath of the carnage he was to handle, and not even the sight of Imladris intact as it always had been could stay his anxiousness.  
  
Now he had stabled his trusty steed, and fatigue soaked into his bones. Yet he could not rest: not yet, for he must speak to Father and let him know of all the horror he had beheld.  
  
He tried his best to avoid the water's edge. He could not look at that _Ciryanette_ Akagi's eyes – or _any_ of their kind, for that matter, without intense disgust and loathing. A part of him, a small part that wished to think the best of all creation, was telling him he was _wrong_ and he was making _assumptions_ and he had _left the path of wisdom_ , but disgust was a strong driver. Elladan had told him, those who loved animals and the gentle creations of the One could not possibly be evil or malicious. Elrohir would not be so certain. Not after what he had seen.  
  
He walked up several stairways, crossed the covered walkway that overlooked the great waterfall, came pass the library, and marched all the way up to the great porch. He ignored the songs from the glade, sweet as it was, knowing that young Estel was probably sleeping under a bough somewhere. He ignored the young _Ciryanette_ wearing one of their robes hunching over the table at Erestor's side diligently writing scripts (she must have started early, he at least gave her that much credit). He ignored another, apparently struggling in the sparring ground against Haldir (“That's sixty-nine-to-nil, Milady,” he heard Haldir speak). He ignored that open room with the lamp still alit where Nagato was sitting and working still.  
  
Such lack of etiquette was not normally his way, but ways were wont to be lost in fear and loathing.  
  
He stood now, in the morning breeze amidst the first light of the new day, before the great porch that looked out into the Valley. For the past three thousand years, this was where Father was always to be found this early in the morning, without fail but for the most extraordinary circumstance.  
  
His knuckle rapped on the old white door. There was a clink of an enameled cup from inside.  
  
Elrohir pushed the door open, and presented himself before the great round table. Father was sitting there, with his tea and his pipe and a harp on the table, viewing the last stars of the night and the first lights of the day.  
  
“ _Ada_ ,” Elrohir said.  
  
Now Father stood up, and Elrohir knew he had his full attention: He turned about and gestured him to sit down opposite him across the table, which Elrohir complied.  
  
“You have returned,” Father said. He paused, and looked Elrohir from his dew-soaked crown to his dusty sole, but stopped particularly long at his unwashed countenance. This had been unbecoming of Elrohir, but in his haste there was little else he could have thought of his dusty appearance. “I am sorry. This... must have been for you a thoroughly unpleasant affair.”  
  
“Truly!” said Elrohir. “I have returned from the place at which the Lady Akagi fought the goblins, and what I saw... frightened me like nothing before has, save perhaps the horror of our kin two Ages ago, and the chiefest device of the great Enemy.” He felt his stomach lurch. “I had thought the scouts were embellishing how much destruction the _Ciryanette_ had wrought. If anything they had understate it, and I...” He swallowed that sentence, and supplanted it with another. “I was not quite prepared for what I was to witness.”  
  
“I thought as much,” said Father. “Tell me of what you saw.”  
  
Like a dam breaking, words poured out of Elrohir. He thought it no exaggeration nor embellishment, but a scene to be recited as he saw it, and his own words tested the strength of his stomach. Bodies mangled. Limbs blown apart. Bones crushed by the sheer force of whatever weapons the _Ciryanette_ was employing. And the patch of dark wood reduced mostly to cinders and ruins. Devastation stretched over a quarter of a mile from the first goblin corpse to the last.  
  
When he was done, he was nearly in tears – it would not have been entirely in shame had he wept, for such destruction of life (evil life though it might be) and defacement of beauty would bring such sorrow to those who loved them.  
  
“That the day has come to pass that I must regard the goblins so brutalized, not with spite and hatred but pity,” he said. “How, then, is this a force for good? How, then, is this a power that we can harness without corrupting ourselves? How, then, shall we befriend these folks at all, so wicked and barbarous were their arms made?”  
  
Father was listening to his every word with keen attention, just as he always had, except far more so this time. After every sentence, every exclamation, every interjection, Father would nod, and nod again, and his bright brows would furrow. Long did he stare out of the great porch into the wide open below.  
  
“You trust them not.” said Father at last.  
  
“That I do not, and verily wish them gone,” Elrohir said. “ _Ada_ , we are no stranger to foul things assuming fair forms to deceive. Surely you recall the plight of Celebrimbor the Jewelsmith?”  
  
“I have thought of such unpleasant possibility,” he said. “And you should rest assured. Though the _Ciryanetti_ 's conduct has allayed my fears for the most part, I have not yet counted them among allies.”  
  
“Then why invite them to our doorstep?” asked Elrohir. “Why offer them a place in our Valley where no evil has come before? Why make it so they could strike us with such impunity if they should only so wish?”  
  
“Because,” said Father, “I see not an arrogant spirit claiming to bear gift, nor a treacherous one that hides blades behind smiles. I see a people in need of help, who may share our purpose once we persuade them sufficiently.”  
  
“Our purpose may be the same,” argued Elrohir, “yet cruel and wicked are their methods I cannot help but be appalled! What their weapons do to the goblins and trolls, _Ada_ , I have beheld with my very eyes, like I have told you: dragon-fire would be less gruesome and more gentle.” He could not fathom himself pitying the creatures of the Shadow, not before and especially not after what they did to Mother, but here he was. “Perchance you might think they would align with the Free Peoples; but with such horrific devices at their disposal, it matters not how good or pure their purpose might be.”  
  
“And what would you purport?” Father said. “The _naval district_ of theirs are here to stay, and we cannot dislodge them; not by words and certainly not by force. They have become a given thing, for good or ill, and we have to make plans with them in mind.”  
  
“Was Isildur's Bane not a given thing ere it was lost in the water so many centuries ago? Was it not here to stay by the design of the Enemy? If it were here today, would you not desire to destroy it?” he said. “As to what I purport, _Ada_ , I know not. It is not in my heart to be a friend of folks bearing such wicked tools of war and destruction, though I am not so ignorant as to wish to make war upon them. All the same, I wish we would not help them and leave them to their own device.”  
  
Now Father's eyes bore deep into him, bright as starlight. “But do you truly wish so?” he asked. “You have met them, spoken to them, dined with them; your brother has laughed and joked with them even if you would rather not. It is possible to love the swordsman and detest the sword.”  
  
“But theirs is not merely a sword,” said Elrohir. “A blade can take but one life, or a dozen with skills and fortune. The fire and iron they wield can butcher hundreds in such ways I would not wish on our foulest foes. If I had such a _sword_ I would have thrown it away and encase it in a mountain of rubble if I can, that nobody would ever use it til Arda be remade.”  
  
“Indeed?” said Father. “Elladan is quite forgiving of them. More so than you are.”  
  
“What said him about her?” said Elrohir, and dread rose in his voice. “I-I mean, about Lady Nagato?”  
  
His brother had spent too much time about the _Ciryanette_ , and seen _something_ about her, of which he would not speak. The subject had sat ill at ease with Elrohir for weeks, made only worse as he could find no wise way to brook the question.  
  
“I never said it was her,” Father said. “But you have asked, and I shall answer: He sees in her very much sorrow and regret and anxiousness to right a perceived sin of her own. ' _Is this what it would have felt like,'_ he asked me, _'for the Kinslayers who left Valinor with Feanor's host, when ere long they doubtlessly realized the weight of their treachery?_ '”  
  
“He thinks too highly of her,” said Elrohir. “I honestly cannot see what he sees.”  
  
“I noticed,” Father said. “All the same, you have not spoken to them very much or at all – nor opened your heart to what they would have to say.”  
  
“I have not, for I don't think it wise,” said Elrohir. “I fear no foe spawn of the Elf-bane that now sits in hiding, this you know too well of me. Yet these _Ciryanette_ , I fear them and that which they bring, even if they have not come to us in war.”  
  
“You have never been so afraid before.”  
  
Father looked as if he had already known the answer. Of course he would. Father had been a font of wisdom for all who would hear him. Like Mithrandir, and far more subtle, oft he understood folks more than they understood themselves.  
  
“Surely it is not an embarrassment even for the Eldar to be afraid of the unknown and unnatural?” said Elrohir at long last. Yet his statement was made most hypocritically, and he knew it. Because Elrohir was afraid, nay, beyond afraid; he had been shaken like never before, and most embarrassed for it. “And, _Ada_ , are these women not unnerving? They bring to fair Middle-earth most frightening tools of destruction that burn and rends and mutilate, and perhaps others even more that we have not seen. Their mere presence upsets the order we have known for all our life. Something about them even remind me of the Numenoreans at the apex of their hubris-”  
  
“I do not entirely disagree,” said Father. “But this I have to say: unlike the Numenorean who fashioned themselves King's Men, the _naval district_ and their folks are willing to listen and be taught. With these tools of theirs they could have wrecked terrible devastation upon our fair Home and much everywhere else from Mithlond to Harad where the _Annabon_ roam, and there would not be much we can do to stay their hands. And yet they had not, for whatever reason. Weakness? Possibly. Confusion? Not improbable. Or maybe a real desire for peace and understanding? Why not?” His hand moved towards the harp on the table – for emphasis. “They have done good turn to us – and not entirely through violence – as we have for them, and are not unreasonable in their ways. Those who assume the best of strangers have left the path of wisdom, but so are those who assume the worst.”  
  
It was not that Elrohir did not want to believe they could be tamed – or even taught. For his brother's sake (and indeed if he had read Elladan right), Elrohir wished little more than being wrong for once.  
  
“What shall we do now?” he asked.  
  
“We wait,” said Father. “We shall tarry, such an unfair word for a fair action such as ours, and not take any great act, be such in very great favour of the _naval district_ or to so inconvenience them. I should like to hear from the White Lady and Saruman the White, before a course of action be picked.”  
  
Elrohir exhaled hard, and shifted in his chair. Then he waited, and waited, and waited until Father would say something – anything – to allay his fears, so huge and bloated as they had grown. When it seemed his wait was fruitless, he finally stood up, bowed to Father, turned about and left the room.  
  
His leave, however, was not for long. For the moment he left the porch through the doorway, he saw standing there a woman in orange, her brown hair hitched up in a neat ponytail.  
  
She was fidgeting outside the door to the great porch, biting her lips and straining her eyes at the doorway, a large envelope under her right arm. At once Elrohir was alarmed: How long had she been waiting out there? How much did she hear? And how much did she understand? What were the chances she knew _some_ Sindarin, in one way or another?  
  
Perhaps not very much, he hoped: the doors of Imladris had been well-made and would keep out wind and sound if this was meant to be, and the tongue of his people has so far been a mystery to them. Still, his suspicion wasn't going to fade so easily, and it bled well into his behaviour.  
  
“Who are you, and who sent you?” he said, with a voice more like Mithrandir angered than his own.  
  
At once she tensed up. If there was one thing quite a few of the _Ciryanetti_ he had meet shared, it was extreme paranoia to anyone outside of themselves. “I have business with Elrond- _kakka_ ,” she said at last. “I... was told he can be found here.”  
  
“Indeed he can!” said Elrohir sharply. “But tell me of your business all the same! Perhaps he has time for you, perhaps he doesn't.”  
  
She withdrew her left arm now to cover the envelope.“I am supposed to deliver him a letter. For his eyes only!”  
  
“A letter?” said Elrohir. Suspicion overtook him, and it was all he could do to keep it down. “May I perchance look at it?”  
  
“I... I can't do that,” she said, “Like I said, This is meant for Elrond- _kakka_ only!”  
  
“Master Elrond is _my father_ ,” cried Elrohir, “and you would excuse me for being anxious of material set to him unbidden!”  
  
Her brows raised sharply. “Oh! You are Elrond- _kakka_ 's...” She straightened her posture with a lurch, and raised her close-fingered palm to her forehead. “Sendai-class Light Cruiser Jintsuu, sent by the Admiral himself, sir! May I speak to your sire urgently and, uh, deliver him-”  
  
“Show me the envelope, then, milady,” Elrohir said. “I swear not to open it: though all the same you must excuse me for being cautious!”  
  
She stuck out the envelope at Elrohir, turning the side sealed and imprinted with the strange-looking emblem of their Naval District, while still holding to the other end with both hands.  
  
It...  
  
… was an absolutely normal-looking envelope. With perhaps just another envelope inside of it, if he looked at it right. And already Elrohir was feeling ill at ease – with himself. Suspicious as he might have been, this was a little too much even for him, to fluster and flummox a gentle woman so much.  
  
“He is not indisposed,” he finally said. “Tarry not, all the same! He has enough on his mind as is.”  
  
He opened the door for the woman in orange, and ushered her in. Then, not yet at ease, he stood right there at the door, and stayed there until Father opened the enevelope and unfurled the parchment inside. There was now suddenly a frown on Father's face.  
  
“This text... is your people's writing?”  
  
“Y-yes, sir!” said Lady Jintsuu. “The Admiral specifically asked me to read the content aloud for your perusal, sir!” Then she stirred, and turned back at Elrohir. “Um... may I... this is meant to be secret correspondence...”  
  
Father nodded. “Elrohir,” he said. “You can take your leave. Unwise is the Man or Elf that barges into correspondence not meant for him!”  
  
So being told, Elrohir left, but he did not _leave_. He stayed outside the porch, on the breeze-swept corridor. He did not eavesdrop, feeling it unbecoming of him. But he stayed he did, and for almost half an hour stood still like a statue.  
  
It felt like a century before the door swung open once more. Out from the threshold walked the Lady Jintsuu, but something did not seem very right.  
  
“Milady,” he asked, and it was all he could do to keep up a stern appearance. “What troubles you?”  
  
The woman looked blank, as if she had just seen something of great bewilderment. Her posture was impeccable still, but her silhouette of a great ship was now listing left and now listing right, and there was correspondingly a small tremble in her fingers. At his voice, she very nearly jumped – which, in hindsight, was as much Elrohir's blame as anything else: he was not supposed to be waiting outside the door, he recalled _._  
  
“I... I'm sorry,” said Miss Jintsuu. “It's a-a military secret. I... I'm not... I am not supposed to.. I don't think-” Then she gasped. She bowed very quickly and very deep. “I'm sorry! I-I must go. Thank you for your understanding, sir!”  
  
Part of Elrohir _particularly_ wanted to pull her back and say he did not understand, and neither had he had granted any understanding. Though his previous animosity was already melting. There was something about flustering maidens (that were apparently ships) apologizing profusely for a perceived slight that would soften the most stone-hearted, and the heart of the Eldar were tenderly made.  
  
“Elrohir,” Father called,his voice clear and sharp through the doorway held ajar.  
  
“ _Ada_ ,” he said. “I beg your pardon. I could not help but wait at the door.”  
  
“I thought as much,” Father said. But on his face there reemerged the keen determination he had oft shown in times requiring it: his eyes shone brighter, and there was a kindly smile on his countenance. “Is the _Ciryanette_ all right?”  
  
“She was quite shaken,” said Elrohir.  
  
“It is because she has had to read aloud the Admiral's message for me. His desire to send an earnest message is admirable – though he did not seem to realize that we can't read his script. Yet.”  
  
Elrohir frowned. “She did not in the slightest like what she had heard, _Ada_. Or read, as the case seemed to be.”  
  
“Did she? I see.” said Father. “Perhaps what he requested us could be taken the wrong way to the malicious, prideful or confused, and the poor woman seemed of the latter type.” Father held up the sheet of note-paper. “He asked for a... teacher, let us say. Someone who could help his men better adapt to our way, because ' _The incident with our planes and your Eagles has proven how lack of good communication, exchanges and understanding can so easily lead to folly and disaster_ ,' he wrote and I quote.”  
  
“ _Prideful_?” asked Elrohir specifically. “But how would that-”  
  
“Yes, pride,” Father said. “Many are the mistakes that the Edain have made in hubris, and they are but Men. The _Ciryanetti_ are _ships_ with all that it implies, in service of a vast and mighty empire that once sailed and waged wars across the oceans of their own world as if on dry land. Their hearts might be pure and their purposes just, but their pride would be correspondingly enormous. We haven't spoken to all of them – though we should at some point – but the chances are high there are some of them who see our assistance granted to the _naval district_ as an insult. And now with this about us sending a _teacher..._ ” He folded the note-paper neatly into quarters. “Did she express any anger at or about you?”  
  
“No, _Ada_ ,” said Elrohir. “She was... uncomfortable. Frightened almost, but – hopefully – not because of I.”  
  
“Indeed?” Father said. For a while he paused, and looked out into the lush valley again. When he turned about, concern was flashing in his eyes. “At any rate, for the moment I must ask you to keep all of this between us. Tell nobody, not even Elladan – and especially not if he asks.”  
  
“You are never too fond of keeping secrets, Ada,” said Elrohir. “Wherefore the sudden discretion?”  
  
“If nothing else, then in respect for the good intent of this Man who does earnestly wish to become our friend,” said Father. “He _did_ wish for this matter to be kept to as few as possible until I could give him a definite _yes_ or _no_.”  
  
“And what _is_ your answer, _Ada_?”  
  
“You ask a rhetorical question, Elrohir,” Father said. “You already know the answer.”  
  
Then he handed Elrohir the letter, or at any rate a transcription into Tengwar in the Mode of Beleriand – quite hastily written. Father must have written it down as the _Ciryanette_ read the letter aloud.  
  
“Keep this for your perusal,” he said. “keep it safe until such time as it can be scribed down for posterity.”  
  
Then he stood up and made for the door.  
  
“What shall we do now, _Ada_?” asked Elrohir.  
  
“Their Admiral had taken all the trouble of sending me a letter like a learned man should,” Father said. “Our conduct shall be very much irremissible if I would not accord him the same courtesy.” His hand fell on Elrohir's dust-stained shoulder. “And now you should rest. Tomorrow, or the day after at the latest, you shall head for the Naval District representing our kin: as a diplomat, and as a scholar who would teach and learn in equal measures.”  
  
It was then that Elrohir thought, a long, long struggle was well ahead of him.


	23. Part the Twenty-Third

**PART THE TWENTY-THIRD**  
  
**IN WHICH GANDALF EXTRICATED BITS OF TRUTH FROM RUMOURS**

  
  
Gandalf had had an unpleasant couple of days in the wildland. The grass was green and the sun was very bright, to the liking of hobbits and wizards alike, but a weight hung heavy on his heart.  
  
It had not been easy at all, after everything had been said and done, to pull Miss Fubuki's group into the Company.  
  
For one thing, they had delayed departure from Bree by a whole day, claiming that they had to contact headquarters for orders first. When they finally brought their two-wheeled contraptions out for the ride, it was already high noon on the Third of May – and though the Company did have quite some time to spare, a delay was a delay was a delay.  
  
For the second, the dwarves did not quite _like_ these new additions. Bofur was arguing that their share of the treasure would diminish with _four_ more claimants, as was Nori. Bombur was groaning that their supply of good sausages, hams and cured meat would be out before they'd see heads or tails of the Misty Mountains. Dwalin was sneering at how meek and _useless_ the women was – only to be stared down by a _very_ frightened Balin, who shouted in his ears something to the tune of “ _Do you want all of us to die horribly?_ ” in Khuzdul (at least that was the part Gandalf could make out). As for the great and noble Thorin Oakenshield, he only stayed silent. Gandalf knew not what ruminations were clicking in his head of stone, but he suspected _'If I stay quiet maybe all of this will go away_ ' was chief among them.  
  
And for the third, the ship-daughters themselves weren't very pleasant company those last few days. Miss Fubuki had spoken nothing to him. Miss Yuudachi was occasionally throwing him stares like an angry child, complete with a ' _poi_ '. Miss Mutsuki's eyes never quite left the ground, while they were moving, or the sky, while they were camping. Even that fiesty woman, Kongou, was no exception. The last civil conversation he had with her, was his fulfilling his end of the bargain – telling her as much as he thought prudent about the dragon. She had laughed in his face and uttered a few words that was no drawing-room language whatsoever.  
  
Today was the Sixth of May, and the third day that the Company had trudged along in silence.  
  
They had now made camp in a hollow near the road, surrounded by trees with a small brook flowing by. The air had got fresher than the previous day: they had finally got far enough from the swamp that there were only occasional midges in the air. Not that it helped the general mood had not improved; if anything it had fallen even further. No songs were sung, no smoke-rings blown, no interaction but among kin, and the good Bilbo Baggins was sullenly tucking away to one end of camp, no doubt lamenting the lack of his full larder and the company of his books and maps.  
  
As for Gandalf? He decided his staying at the campsite wouldn't help the mood any; and he took off away before anyone could ask where he had gone. He found himself a quiet corner in the company of himself, beneath the bough of an old oak tree. It was peaceful in a way: The sun was now setting, and it was as good a time for a smoke as any.  
  
But hardly had he produced his pipe and pipeweed box than a tiny shadow descended upon him. It fell past the bough to his eye-level, and hovered there. Gandalf's brows turned up. In front of him was a little red bird that looked altogether familiar. It was a robin, he thought: Robins, as a whole, were a friendly enough sort and quite loyal for their size, but infamously gossipy among their lot.  
  
“ _Ah, Master Gandalf, good evening!_ ” she – because the red robin was a she – chirped.  
  
“Well, well, well, if it isn't a happy bird on my watch!” he said. “I do hope (for it would decide if you'd get some bird seeds from my pack or not) that you've brought good tidings!”  
  
Now Gandalf recalled, had only spoken to this robin but once, just shy of two months ago when he passed by Radagast's camp – she was perched over the Brown Wizard's shoulder all the while they were discussing matters particular to wise wizards. At the end he'd caught her name: February, given by Radagast himself on the occasion of her hatching. And as of all animals personally raised by Radagast, February was a jolly, lively little bird of impeccable manner (for a robin).  
  
“ _Why, sir, would you not make an exception?_ ” said the bird “ _After all, the good Miss Mutsuki is now in your company, and she's a most pleasant travel companion (though overbearing she is – and she feeds me overly much)! Surely that should account for something?”_  
  
“Yes, and that is thanks to my tongue (not yours) and the force of circumstance – which is naturally stronger than any tongue and altogether not creditable to you nor me.” said Gandalf. “Unless, of course, you would have a story to tell worth a reward.”  
  
“ _A story, you asked, Master Gandalf?_ ” said little February. “ _Do I have the gossip for you! It has to do with the great elf-lord son of the great Master Elrond who dwells in Imladris quite a distance away!_ ”  
  
“Intriguing, but perhaps unnecessary,” said Gandalf, and his first thought was that there probably wasn't _anything_ of late about Elladan and Elrohir that he had not known. “My last visit to Rivendell, you see, was but a month ago.”  
  
“ _But my good sir! This is new news!_ ” the bird chirped. “ _The Lord Elrohir, kind soul as he was, has just came into possession of a most distressing letter that made him very much anxious indeed! More so, since he had oathed not to speak of the matter to Man or Elves!_ ”  
  
At once Gandalf snapped out of his disinterest. “A letter, you said?” he said. “Now that is something I have not heard! Do tell me more.”  
  
_“Yes, yes, Master Gandalf! And because of that oath, and because he was so distressed, he instead spoke to a thrush about the matter. But alas, thrushes are notoriously bad at not keeping secrets down their gullets, and now half the birds and bees in Eriador has known of this nasty disturbing business!_ ” She scratched her foot on Gandalf's robe. “ _Anyway, the thrush spoke to a sparrow, who spoke to a wild-bill, who spoke to a nightingale, who spoke to a blue-tailed parrot, who spoke to an enormous old spotty heron, who, then, by chance,_ _I met yesterday while he was out fishing!_ ”  
  
“Careful now, little bird,” said Gandalf. “For someone who speaks so ill of spreaders of gossip, your tongue is quite busy itself!” He tucked his hand into one of his pockets, pulled out a few bird-seeds (Gandalf did like to keep some on his person for the odd bird or two) and put it into the palm of his left hand. “At any rate, pray do not keep me waiting for a good tale! What said this old heron?”  
  
Now the little robin walked on her fine feet from the tip of his shoulder towards his ear. “ _Oh, Master Gandalf, sir, the heron was anxious to speak!_ _'The good Lord Elrohir was very upset,' he told me. 'He has learnt that there are four poor lasses, now on their way to Imladris on their legs; yet their feet are heavy, for they are held against their will in thralldom of a devious wizard. And worse! Now a terrible thing called 'disciplinary action' – which does truly sound like a most gruesome, nasty, brutal thing – shall befall them, for they had listened to the honeyed words of wizards!'.”_  
  
“Good story, or at any rate a good beginning to one!” said Gandalf. He thought he hid his anxiousness quite well: deep inside he could not be more attentive and worried if he tried. His mind was wandering to places: birds were as a rule not a very reliable informant and rumours the downfall of fools, but oft even the most fabricated of rumours would contain grains of truth. And something about this rumour sounded particularly … familiar.  
  
The little bird's chirping only grew more intense.  
  
“ _Now, my dear Master Gandalf, I was so furious, for it is the good Master Radagast, may his friends ever remain swift and mighty, that raised me from egg to hatchling till I am well-fletched and feathered and well-mannered like I today am!_ _So I had to make sure the shifty old bird would know!_ ” she said quickly. “ _'Watch your tongue, old-feather,' I said, 'and watch your spotty beak also, that it does not fall off! Wizards are mysterious folks, but there is nary a thing they do without cause (or with malice), or I'm not a red-breasted robin!' Poor manner, I am well aware, but no bird large or small, nay, not even the Great Windlord himself, insults wizards on my watch!_ ”  
  
“Hear, hear, there's a brave champion among birds if I ever saw one!” said Gandalf, and added another seed to his outstretched palm. “That's another for you, and a handful once you're done. Now tell the rest!”  
  
“ _But of course, Master Gandalf, I'm just getting there!_ ” said the bird. “ _Then he was so astonished, he almost dropped his fish-dinner, and he looked me like I've gone daft. That would have served the dotty old bird well, I thought, the loss of a well-earnt dinner. But then he resumed eating, like I wasn't there – how rude!_ ”  
  
“As is a heron's wont,” said Gandalf. Another three seeds left his pocket. “What else did he say?”  
  
“ _Like I said, I_ am _getting there, Master Gandalf! Then he looked up, and swayed his neck from side to side, bits of fish still clamped between his beak. 'That's news from a-far, hatchling,' he said, like he knew more than wizards – what nerve! 'Take it like the rare morsel it is, or speed your wings and see if you can find better'._ ” There was a sound from February's gullet, like a humph. “ _And then, because this was a good two days ago, and he's made me quite curious myself, I took the effort to fly far and wide looking for other good birds who's heard quite the same. And lo! I met a good few helpful ones, and a few trickier type, but those who would speak to a robin would say, 'there's a good old heron,' because they'd heard much the same tale, give or take!_ ”  
  
“Intriguing," said Gandalf with a nod and three. "By what name, if you have heard, do these four unfortunate lasses go by?”  
  
“ _The heron did not say much, Master Gandalf, for he is unlearnt and cannot pronounce names but that of his kin. But one of the names he gave, well, I remember well, because it sounded quite funny – Go-go, or so I heard him saying. Or perhaps it was Kon-ko, or something equally far-fetched and foreign to birds._ ”  
  
Here Gandalf furrowed his very great brows (of which he was mightily proud). “Or maybe, perchance, he meant _Kongou_?”  
  
“ _It could be, Master Gandalf, just as it could not. Like I said, an old heron is not a good source for names, and five-fold less if his gullet is half-full of fish!_ ”  
  
“Did this heron – may his beak remain ever strong – say when Master Elrohir got this secret message?”  
  
“ _News travel only as fast as the wings flap, Master Gandalf, and we flap fast!_ ” she said. “ _It was oh, maybe two sunsets and sunrises before I met the old heron, if his sense of time could be trusted (and if you asked me herons are decent enough)._ ”  
  
“Color me impressed indeed!” he said. “Take another half a dozen seeds. You've more than earnt it, if your story is true; and even if it is not, not every day would I hear a brave little bird savaging a heron!”  
  
That said, Gandalf was quite alarmed. He thought himself quite good at connecting the dots, and while he might not have known _what_ the entire deal was about which involved Miss Kongou and her friends, he was a wise enough wizard to know it could be nothing good-  
  
“Kisa- February- _chan!_ ”  
  
The shout rang out before Gandalf saw the person. There, into the shade of the oak ran Miss Mutsuki, her face taken with anxiousness. She wasn't even looking at Gandalf: the tiny bird had her full attention.  
  
The tiny gossip blinked once. She swayed her neck back at Gandalf and blink once more. Then, as if that wasn't enough, she turned about at the magenta-haired girl, and blinked for the third time. Then she left Gandalf's hand – the bird-seeds remained un-pecked – and flew to the girl's hand.  
  
“Where have you been?” she chided – the bird, that was, not Gandalf. “It's dangerous out here at night, you know?”  
  
Now Gandalf might not have been the best reader of bird-hearts – that was one of the few things over him Radagast held the mastery – but he could have sworn to Manwe Sulimo, that the little bird would have chirped ' _I don't know what she's talking about_ ' had she found it wise to speak.  
  
“Goodness gracious,” he said. “Are you all right, Miss Mutsuki? You look rightly panicked!”  
  
“Ah!” Her shoulder jerked a bit. “Gandalf- _san_? I'm sorry,” she said. “That's, um, the robin's, uh... I've been looking for her these last couple days.” She caressed February's back with her finger. “It's really nothing.”  
  
Mutsuki, the sweet, sweet lass, now produced from her pocket a generous handful of seeds, and at once the robin was off doing what robins were wont to do: pecking and pecking away at the feed, making satisfied chirping on the side. Gandalf realized, too late, that he and his tiny bit of seeds looked dead to the bird right about now.  
  
What could Gandalf have done but return _his_ bird-seeds back inside his coat-pocket? _And she said she is wizard-friend just a moment ago_ , thought Gandalf.  
  
As the bird pecked its way through the mountain of seeds, Mutsuki looked up at Gandalf. “I'm sorry for intruding,” she said. “Um, I'll excuse myself now-” and turned about.  
  
Now Gandalf was presented a choice. He could have let the matter slide, and leave Mutsuki to her device. Or he could let his curiosity take over, and just _ask_ her if his theory was right.  
  
He decided on the latter. “May I have a word, my dear miss?” he asked.  
  
Mutsuki turned around.  
  
“What, my dear Miss Mutsuki, is this thing about _disciplinary action_ I have heard?” he asked, and his gaze hardened.  
  
Suddenly the young miss' stare became hard and looked like sparks might come out of them any time soon. “I'm sorry,” she said. “It's honestly _none_ of your concern, Gandalf- _san_.”  
  
“I may be able to help,” said Gandalf, and he meant it. “I am not your enemy-”  
  
“Gandalf- _san_ ,” she said. “Haven't you done enough damage already?” There was quiet, cold rage in her voice: the sweet and gentle demeanor of hers buried six feet beneath its ice.  
  
Then she resumed her course out of Gandalf's sight before he could gather enough of himself to fire off another question.  
  
It was then that Gandalf realized his good intentions might have gone verily and exceedingly _wrong._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imagine the robin is voiced by Ookubo Rumi, because Azur Lane. I assume also that a robin raised by Radagast would be quite a bit better-learnt and better-spoken, so to speak, than ordinary birds in the wilds – and we know Tolkien's animals can be quite the smart little things!


	24. Part the Twenty-Fourth

**PART THE TWENTY-FOURTH**   
  
**IN WHICH A SUBMARINE WAS PROVEN TO BE THE WORST POSSIBLE WELCOME PARTY**

  
  
  
Akagi closed her eyes, and felt the cool, clear water of the Hoarwell beneath her feet. Her small fleet had left Rivendell at noon for the naval district.  
  
When they left Rivendell the great eagle was still delirious: she'd heard goblin weapons tended to be tipped with deadly poison and filth, and the poor eagle had been struck by many. It was only later after the deed did Akagi learn just _how_ instrumental her effort was to saving his life – much as she was grateful to _him_ for bringing her fairy back.  
  
Akagi would have very much wished to stay until the eagle would have recuperated. Bow to him. Say “Good day” and “Thank you”. Behave like a grateful polite Japanese woman should. Circumstances had dictated otherwise: one, it was an urgent order, and two, part of her felt like the sooner she left the more thankful the groaning chefs of Rivendell would be. The poor elves had given her a behind-the-back nickname of ' _the all-consuming hungry ghost of the Trollshaws'_ (translation helpfully provided for by Hachi), and Akagi thought to carry it proudly.  
  
As for what she was transporting? Well, thay was another good story.  
  
After the Admiral himself, Kirishima, Jintsuu, Master Elrond and the elf on the sleek swan-shaped boat she was towing behind her, Akagi was the first to know of what was inside that handwritten note (or at least that part of it relevant to her). The elf – Elrohir was the name, the other son of Master Elrond – was to be posted on a (semi-) permanent basis at the naval district: as an ambassador, too, but also as an advisor and a teacher of the local culture.  
  
Now Akagi probably wouldn't speak for _all_ of the bored capital ships moored at base, but she thought having a native scholar around as an ambassador and advisor was something they should have done from _day one_. Of course hindsight was ten out of ten, she knew, and it wasn't fair blaming the Admiral or the general staff for not thinking of this earlier. Between food concern, various morale issues, and the fact that they knew basically _nothing_ about literally everything around them, there was only so much you could expect. After all, human attention is a limited thing, and keeping everything from falling completely apart over the last six weeks was in and of itself a small miracle.  
  
She turned about.  
  
The boat she was towing behind felt absolutely weightless, and not just because it really _was_ that light of a load, but also because of how well it was made, that the ten meter of engraved wood with an elf and his luggage sitting on it felt light as feather. A curious thought came to her; if this little boat would become a fleetgirl, what would she look like? Akagi thought she would be like an acrobatic three-year-old wearing a cap with little swan-wings attached to it, who'd think nothing of balancing on tightropes or trapezeing a hundred feet above the ground. That sort of thing.  
  
In a way the quiet cruise made her more at ease with the surrounding. In another way, the voyage was proving a bit lonely. Asashio was screening about half a mile ahead of her, and Amatsukaze was half a mile behind. There were several of Zuihou's planes circling the perimeter to be safe, too. With how sudden the goblins of the other day popped up, and with a _very_ important person to ferry, they really could take no chances.  
  
The formation had left Akagi alone with an elf who didn't talk much. Or at all. They'd been sailing for two hours now at a comfortable enough speed to lull people to sleep, and he _still_ hadn't spoken a word to her; and there was not much Akagi could have taken it but as a kind of tacit hostility. Not at all what she would have expected from an ambassador.  
  
But absolute silence had a way of getting to her. It would get to anyone, truly speaking, and more so for Akagi. It made her feel she'd done something wrong.  
  
At long last, Akagi thought she should do something to fix that silence. Give him a nudge or two, that kind of thing.  
  
“Elrohir- _san_ ,” she asked. “Am I going too fast for you?”  
  
“Oh.” The elf turned his head up. His brows were knitted in deep concern. “My apologies,” he said. “I was lost in thoughts – how embarrassing.”  
  
“I see.” Another nudge. “What kind of thoughts exactly, if you don't mind my intruding?”  
  
“A great many things,” he said, “most of which I would like to keep to myself, thank you very much.” Now his voice was suddenly more mellow. “Not for unwillingness to share, you understand, but because they are quite disjointed and disorganized. If I should speak, I would like to do so with wisdom, not in confusion.”  
  
And now suddenly he felt older to her: not just old in an age sense, but also in a venerable sense. It was a funny thing, for the spirit of a ship given form like Akagi, the notion of _age_. The elf sitting there, despite looking so youthful and energetic, had been alive for _longer than Japan had been a nation-state_. This being who had seen so much, who had probably done even more, was flabbergasted because of how foreign and alien and incomprehensible the fleet girls were. And yet with all of that depth of knowledge and vastness of experience almost incomprehensible for any human being, he was being confused by the mere fact that Akagi and the fleet existed.  
  
And could she have blamed him? If the table had been flipped, Akagi would have been lost for words too. “It's alright,” she said.  
  
She could respect his will; because it took a certain kind of humbleness and wisdom to not speak unless absolutely certain of the subject matter. Akagi herself would like to do that – though she failed, too, from time to time.  
  
For a time the silence reigned, and Akagi focused on the waterway. The trees were green, the grass beneath the shade lively, and occasionally the sound of wildlife from either side of the river was heavenly to her ears.  
  
And then they came along that patch of the river where she ran into the goblins.  
  
The mere sight of the site made her shudder a little. It had been cleaned up now, to some extent; the water was no longer thick with black blood, all the goblin bits had been dealt with, the forest floor scrubbed of viscera as much as could be done. But the trees burnt and knocked down by her AA guns weren't going to come back any time soon, and Akagi preferred not to think of just _how_ many of the innocently chirping birds had been caught in the crossfire.  
  
She closed her eyes, and at once images of the slaughter flashed into her mind. The scream. The explosions. The blood and spilled innards. Flesh ripped apart. And then other pictures entered her mind, of the same sort of violence – except now it wasn't the goblins any more who were in pieces, but the bright young men who'd guided her helm and tended her boiler and manned her guns and piloted her air wing...  
  
_Please scuttle me._  
  
Her boilers sputtered.  
  
Then Elrohir's voice rang out behind her. “You are shivering, Lady Akagi.”  
  
Her eyes snapped open. “Ah, I... I'm sorry,” she said. “It is-”  
  
“No need to apologize, milady, at the very least not to me,” said the elf. “Rest assured, my kin and I have cleaned up the dead, and eased what sufferings wrought to the _kelvar_ and _olvar_ of this part of the woodland as we could.”  
  
His voice was a lot less bitter than Akagi feared it would be. Or perhaps it was cold rage, or sardonic sniping. Honestly, she couldn't tell.  
  
“I mean... I am aware I've done something I... shouldn't,” she said. “Even though it's self-defense-”  
  
“I did not mean it as a chastisement – and I beg your pardon if it sounds like one,” said Elrohir. “You did help us rid the world of a marauding warband of goblin backed by so many wargs and a couple of trolls, who would have no doubt caused terrible suffering to the Free People unfortunate enough to be overtaken by them.”  
  
Akagi turned about, and saw him leaning a bit forward, keeping perfect balance as they passed through the river bend.  
  
“All the same,” he continued, more slowly and a lot more pensive than before – not to say he hadn't already been in a ruminant mood. “There is one thing I should like to ask you; out of genuine curiosity rather than animosity. When you unleash such destruction to your foe – it matters not if they are fair or foul – what, exactly, graces your mind? Relish and joy? Pain and sorrow? Something in between? Or... nothing at all?”  
  
At once Akagi didn't want to do anything but to sit down, on the water if she could, and rub her temples.  
  
That was why fighting goblins was harder than fighting Abyssals in one thing, and just one thing. Fighting Abyssals was an almost bloodless kind of warfare: little blood, little gore, little dismemberment if any, only explosions and sorrow in the air. Fighting goblins, or at least that one massacre she was dishing out, was not so sanitized. Just thinking of how much blood and guts she'd spilled, or how limbs were blown apart by her weapons made her stomach lurch.  
  
And of course, there was that time...  
  
_Please scuttle me_.  
  
The experience hurt her in a way almost _shameful_ to admit, and yet there it was: the memory that made it _painful_ and _nasty_ and _uncomfortable_ was now as much a part of Akagi's existence as her gleaming rigging and elite air wing.  
  
“It's not... it's not what I would like to dwell on too much,” she said. “B-but if it would make you feel better about... about all this, I didn't take any joy in the... in the killing.”  
  
“I am glad,” said Elrohir. “I was in the same room when Lady Nagato and my father spoke about what you _are_ , Lady Akagi. It is not beyond the realm of imagination that weapons of war would assume a _fea_ of their own and walk abroad as you do,” Akagi turned round again: now his eyes were gleaming at her, almost inquisitively so. “But I must ask you this: How do you feel about the whole business of _battle_ , as weapons designed to kill and destroy?”  
  
Akagi's answer was both deeply ingrained into her existence... and terribly personal at the same time. “We do what we must,” she said. “We've been made because we were needed, to defend Japan and make her great. And then we've been called again, once more because we were needed, to defend Japan and make her... not diminish.”  
  
“But now you are in Middle-earth,” said Elrohir. “There is no 'Japan' in Arda. What, then, do you exist for now?”  
  
“Perhaps that means we are needed still,” said Akagi. Funny, she'd otherwise found his questions a bit... uncomfortable – but right now anything, _anything_ to take her mind off the killing of goblins would be good. “Because after loyalty to Emperor and Japan, our loyalty lies with family, friends and the organization to which we belong. And... if our family and friends and organization are here, and they need my bow and my rigging, then that is my purpose.” She sighed. “Elrohir- _san_ , is it a paradox for a weapon of war to wish for peace?”  
  
Now Elrohir's gaze grew gentler – sympathetic, even.  
  
“Not if such weapon had been crafted with beauty, not bloodshed, in mind,” he said. “This I have only heard, not witnessed; but our bards sing of such time in the Uttermost West when our kin used to devise swords and spears and arrows, not for fear of foes who may assail us, but because of their dedication of the craft and their love for the mastery that practice would bring. Wrought with dedication and care and application of craft, even a sword would be more than just a tool for slaying.”  
  
A soft giggle escaped Akagi's lips. “I see.”  
  
“Perhaps you disagree?”  
  
“No,” said Akagi. “It's just that... what you said reminds me of some of our people's own legendary swordsmiths. Would you like to hear of Masamune and Muramasa, greatest of smiths of their time?”  
  
Elrohir nodded quickly. “Do indulge me,” he said. It should _really_ be written into their handbook that elves without fail were _very_ fond of stories and folklore most of all.  
  
The legend of Masamune was pleasant to recite. Like a whole lot of other Japanese folk tales, it indulged the Japanese people in the notion that they were meant to be a nation of peace and wisdom and understanding, illusory as this notion had been in Akagi's time. But it was a soothing sort of notion, and to a mind muddled by the morals of war as good as a dose of _Philopon_.  
  
By the time she got to the part where the two smiths had their competition – how one sword cut through a leaf flowing downstream before it even touched the edge and how the other did not – Elrohir was sitting with arms neatly folded and attentive like a keen schoolboy.  
  
“I would have judged Masamune the one with greater mastery,” he said.  
  
“Ah, then you are of one mind with the sage of that legend. That is exactly how the tale goes down; Masamune won,” said Akagi, “because a sword that reveled in so much killing intent would be both a cruel weapon and a cursed one. Not a _good_ one.”  
  
“And yet your people still devised such terrible weapons that you wield, nay, that you _are_ ,” Elrohir pointed out. “Did they not learn anything from the wisdom of their elders?”  
  
Akagi stumbled on her words for a bit. It was a logic that she had taken for granted without question throughout her existence. If the best weapons were those of mercy, then yes, _why_ did they exist?  
  
“We... didn't have much of a choice,” she said at last. “When someone else makes a big enough stick to threaten us, and we don't make a stick as big – or bigger – in return, that's like inviting them to trample all over us, and we can't accept that. In time sticks become swords, swords become guns, guns become gunships.” Her chuckle sounded more bitter than she thought. “It's funny how our desire to protect ourselves turned so ugly so quickly, right?”  
  
Elrohir sat still for a time. “That is a kind of wisdom I cannot impart to you, for that is a quandary we have never confronted,” he then admitted. “But as to comforting words, perhaps I can give you something else in gratitude for the story you have told.”  
  
Then he picked up his harp, which was under his cloak all along, and plucked a few strings. And then he straightened his posture, and held the harp close, and then _really_ began.  
  
Now she didn't know _what_ he was singing, but his voice soothed her to the very core. Apparently the wildlife thought the same: from the sky and the nearby woods a large flock of colorful birds was slowly gathering. There were parrots, there were swallows, there were magpies, there were nightingales, there were a couple of hawks and kingfishers too. The larger remained aflight, circling over the boat just above the forest canopy on either side. The smaller ones unshyly descended upon them, perching themselves on the elven-boat and about Elrohir, and joined his songs with their own singing.  
  
A few of the less shy ones had found their way past Elrohir and his harp. They'd found Akagi hair and clothes particularly fascinating: one was perched on her shoulder, another trying to burrow through her hair, and a third hovering for a time at her waist. The more mischievous part of Akagi had thought to have her deck-fairies take as many photos of the scene as they could manage and blackmail Nagato with them.  
  
In fact, she didn't have to tell: some of the cheekier fairies were already scuttling about, cameras in hand. Flash, flash, flash. Barely five minutes and Akagi had had enough material for a small album. Most wonderfully, that many flashes in quick succession didn't even frighten off the birds!  
  
A very, very satisfied smile came to Akagi. “Can you summon them at will like this?”  
  
“Not summon,” said Elrohir. “They've come of their own free will. Good music and sincere company brings you much of value: you'd find yourself friends in the most unexpected places.” His voice grew a little deeper, but more relaxed. “And a boon oft begets a boon in return.”  
  
“I...” Akagi's lips trembled a little. “We'll take it into advisement.”  
  
She slowed down to five knots, and let the music pacify the nasty things within her.  


***

  
It was a little past dawn when the naval district's pier became visible in the distance.  
  
They'd traveled through the night – more slowly, but without stop. It was the river cruise she was meant to have since they'd come to Middle-earth.  
  
There on the pier Asashio was already waiting, waving her hands about. “Akagi- _san_!” she cried.  
  
“So... this is your naval district,” said Elrohir. He hadn't caught a wink of sleep, and yet he looked quite fresh – fresher and more at ease than when they had set off, actually.  
  
Now Akagi made her way to the pier, and guided the little boat into the mooring.  
  
“I'm sorry the welcome isn't as... well, as much as it could be,” said Akagi. “We haven't told most of the staff that you're coming. We'll have a big announcement after you've spoken to the Admiral and Kirishima- _san_.”  
  
“I would be fine with it,” said Elrohir. Off the boat's bottom he jumped, like a swallow, and landed five feet above on the pier itself.  
  
He looked upon the brick-and-mortar pier, and then at the tall, square buildings around him. The only animate part on his face was his brows, which kept quirking. Akagi couldn't read at once if he liked or disliked what he was seeing.  
  
His first question when Akagi walked up to the pier was not at all what she expected. “May I ask,” he said, “how long ago was all of this built?”  
  
“In stages,” said Akagi. “The pier hasn't changed a lot over the past, say, five decades, and there are parts of the naval district that dates back a century. Unfortunately a good part of the port was hit by an air strike about two years ago and has been since extensively rebuilt.” She winked proudly. “My people work fast.”  
  
Elrohir nodded and frowned at the same time. Fascination and disapproval shown in a single expression. “I see,” he said.  
  
“Let's go – there's a shortcut just over here,” said Akagi, and began walking off. “I'm sure the Admiral has prepared something of a welcome party at his office.” Food had never quite failed to comfort her, why should it this time?  
  
The problem, however, was that the shortcut through the dock into the district proper passed through the submarine bay.  
  
It was only when Akagi saw a glimpse of long, pointy purple hair and a school swimsuit with 'I-19' written on it that she realized she's done something _particularly regrettable_. Iku was standing in her way, a clipboard in her hand and playing with one of her torpedoes with the other.  
  
The moment her eyes fell upon the trio, she let the torpedo drop on the ground with a _clonk._ “H-eey, Akagi- _san_!” she shouted.  
  
The mere _presence_ of the submarine seemed to have made Asashio red in the face. “Iku- _chan_?” she said. “A-are you sure you're supposed to be-”  
  
“Hey, that's fine, that's fine! Iku has her sources and her permissions!” she waved her free hand. “So... this fancy elf is the reason why the Admiral told us to behave ourselves, heeh~” Iku was alternating between her clipboard and Elrohir's face. A sort of dissonantly unchildlike flash came to her childlike face.  
  
Elrohir coughed into his palm. “Pardon me, Miss,” he began, “but-” He never got to finish her sentence when Iku shoved herself well inside his personal space.  
  
“So, so, so!” she began cheerfully.  
  
Iku was having one of those blushing, mischievous and not entirely pure (entirely not pure?) grin of hers, from ear to ear. Now she was hovering all over the elf, from back to front, like he was a precious specimen to be dissected for SCIENCE! (Or whatever it was that passed for science in that head of hers). Her stare was _drilling_ into him.  
  
This... sight filled Akagi with indescribable dread.  
  
“Iku- _chan_ , I don't think-”  
  
Too late. “Iku heard you're the guy who _did_ Nagato- _san_ , right?" Iku said in her sing-song voice. “So – how – did – it – feel – like?”  
  
_Oh. No._  
  
Akagi cast a sideway glance, red-hot embarrassment _flooding_ her.  
  
Asashio's eyes were _swirling_.  
  
The poor elf looked like he was going to faint.


	25. Part the Twenty-Fifth

**PART THE TWENTY-FIFTH  
  
IN WHICH THE WONDERS AND FAILURE OF INDUSTRY WERE BOTH OBSERVED**

**  
**  
It was a well known thing that the two Yamato-class did not like to laze around in boredom.  
  
Coming to this new world had only strengthened Yamato's habit. While her sister was entertaining herself directing hunting and foraging teams, Yamato was more at home with the logistics side of things. And perhaps, for that reason too, Kirishima had picked her for a particular... protocol task.  
  
Today she woke as the sky became white; she put on her finer wear and picked up her umbrella, and stepped out into the open.  
  
She'd been standing there for a while – her internal clock was striking six before the silhouette of a battleship in miko dress and stocking drew close.  
  
“Kirishima- _san_ , good morning!” Yamato said. To think of it she looked a little overdressed: kimono and umbrella and everything, while Kirishima looked like she'd just thrown water over her face to keep awake after yet another massive pile of paperwork.  
  
Kirishima combed her hair with her hand, and smiled as best as she could. “You ready?”  
  
“Yup!” said Yamato, not without excitement. “Let's be off – wouldn't do well for the Hotel Yamato to let a VIP waiting, right?”  
  
“I thought you hated that nickname,” said Kirishima with a low chuckle and a pat on her shoulder (which was awkward – if only because Yamato was an inch or two taller than all of the Kongou sisters).  
  
It didn't matter if she wasn't firing all her big guns; in fact, she'd thought to herself time and time again since coming to this world, it would be a change for the better. If there was no more need for her forty-six-centimeter, she could be content being a logistics kind of fleetgirl (which would have made her function, indeed, not unlike a hotel manager).  
  
“Time changes,” said Yamato. “I, Yamato, exist to serve in whichever way that would most benefit the majority. If it demands I set aside my guns and pick up the apron, then so be it.” Her voice diminished. “I haven't been a very good battleship, have I?”  
  
“You've never been a poor battleship,” she said. Kirishima said that a lot – just as Nagato had always said before her. Perhaps it was true, perhaps not, but it made Yamato at least slightly more at ease with herself.  
  
The sun was rising by the time they were walking along the cobbled path leading down to the dockside.  
  
What they saw was a riot.  
  
There on the path scurried a _very_ excited-looking Iku hovering all over a tall stranger dressed in princely blue robe. Yamato didn't need to consult any photo to conclude at once, that was unmistakably the elf they were supposed to greet. Akagi and Asashio were standing just behind him, frozen in place and flushed to the ears.  
  
“Milady,” he said. “I am quite certain you have been gravely misled.”  
  
Iku did not let up. “Aw, but the rumor's all over the place!” she exclaimed. “Look, look, Iku doesn't need any sniper's scope to see there's some really juicy business going on! Get it, _juicy_?”  
  
“Iku-chan!” cried Kirishima, her brisk steps covering ground at an almost threatening pace. “What do you _think_ you are doing?”  
  
“Awwww...” she said. “Iku's just asking around for _intelligence_!” She made a rapid, confusing hand gesture. “See, see, Ikazuchi- _chan_ said the other day, that this guy here-” She shot a glance that could _only_ be described as _cheek-flushing_ at the elf. “-comes into Nagato- _san_ 's room a whole lot! And-”  
  
Truly, Iku's manner of speech had a way of putting _images_ into heads. Yamato wouldn't count herself among day-dreamers, and especially not in _that_ way. And yet now half of her bridge-fairies were giggling immaturely at the image she'd inadvertently conjured. _Nagato-san... and this elf... in a room... alone?_  
  
_Oh no. Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no._  
  
At once she felt like making for the restroom and dunking a pail of cold water over her head.  
  
Normally Kirishima would probably have gone as red in the face as Yamato _undoubtedly was._ Not now. “Submarine I-19,” she said coldly. “You. Will. Walk. Away. Right. Now.”  
  
It was a direct order, and off went poor Iku into the distance. Almost made Yamato pity her – if not for that... image, that now clung to her mind like dried sticky rice. “ _Bang as hard at the inside of my bridge until I forget that mental image_ ” she ordered her fairies.  
  
With that done, there _finally_ was the greeting the guest deserved. Kirishima whipped around to the elf, and bowed deeply. “I'm Kirishima, Kongou-class fast battleship, and Secretary Ship of the fleet.” _For now_ went unpronounced.  
  
“Yamato, name ship of the Yamato-class battleship,” she said, her cheeks still, alarmingly, on fire. “I'm in your care, Elrohir- _san_. I've been briefed of your arrival”  
  
Now Akagi and Asashio, too, had gathered about him in a half-circle. It would take but _one_ look to confirm that yes, all of them, including Kirishima too, could use an ice-bucket or two right about now. The polite greeting and the slamming of bridge-wall by fairies helped, though not quite as much as Yamato would have liked.  
  
“Indeed, I am Elrohir, son of Elrond Master of the Last Homely House.”  
  
“I'm sorry for all that... mess,” said Kirishima. “Our protocol is a bit... amiss these days. I beg your pardon.”  
  
“You have my pardon, and more than that – my sympathy.” The sheer calmness the elf managed to maintain was admirable. “The girl... she must have mistaken me for my brother. Uncouth as her comments might have been, it does have a grain of truth. My brother has spoken quite fondly of Lady Nagato, and most highly regards her spirit, and does verily enjoy her company.” He dipped his head. “I beg your pardon for the misunderstanding. All the same, I would make an oath right here if you so desire, that my brother has done nothing untoward-”  
  
“I know,” said Kirishima. “The first rule of surviving this base as an outsider is plug your ears and cover your eyes whenever Iku's eyes start twinkling. Better yet, keep out of the submarine dorms. They... get strange ideas.”  
  
“I see,” said Elrohir. “At any rate, I understand I am supposed to meet with your Admiral as soon as I can-”  
  
“Ah, about that,” said Kirishima. “I'm sorry, but something _else_ came up in his agenda. Yet another very urgent meeting.” she said. “You'd excuse me, we're in the middle of a... major restructuring effort.” She bowed – her smile had _can anyone_ _please scuttle me already_ written on it. “Let's see, I'll come back to you maybe after lunchtime after I've sorted out a certain _mess_. Would that trouble you?”  
  
“Not at all,” said Elrohir.  
  
Kirishima sighed in what sounded like a _lot_ of relief. “Yamato,” she said, “would you mind showing our guest here about?”  
  
As she spoke, a radio message was patched through to Yamato via the secure channel. “ _You can take him everywhere – he's got clearance to visit pretty much wherever he likes except the ship-repair dock and radio rooms. Obvious reason._ ”  
  
“I'm happy to do so,” said Yamato.  
  
_“Roger to both.”_ went her response message.  


***

  
It was about ten in the morning when the tour was nearly done.  
  
Yamato had found the elf Elrohir surprisingly pleasant to talk with. He was not particularly funny or joke-happy, nor particularly talkative (and Ashigara would rank those three among her more desirable characteristics to look for at a mixer).  
  
Instead he exuded wisdom.  
  
His questions were few, but never without purpose. When they crossed Mamiya's place, he asked who wrote the calligraphy hung over the doorway and when. Crossing the Battleship Dorm, he asked if they – as battleships – would feel confined in a place so far from the coast. And finally, when they passed by the moss-covered monument looking over the turn of the river, he asked if it was to anyone's memory.  
  
And then, when they came back around to Mamiya's place, he seemed a little lost in thoughts. His next request was... surprising, again.  
  
“May I visit your smithy, or your workshop, or wherever it is that you work your very curious devices?”  
  
For a second Yamato's eyes were widening – unsightly so – at him. “Um...” she said. “S-sure, I, Yamato, can show you that place. But I don't recommend it-”  
  
“Is it a place I shall be unwelcome?” he asked.  
  
“N-no,” she said. “It's just that... the place's a little messy right now-”  
  
“There is always a way to see the best through even a 'mess', as you said, Lady Yamato. Maybe I can help somehow,” he said. “My father wished me to come to provide assistance and knowledge and counsel, and perhaps receive some back in return.”  
  
Yamato stopped for a second. There was such insistence in his voice Yamato couldn't quite say no to. “If you so wish,” she said, “I must implore you, while there, to tread _very carefully_ and... and do everything Akashi- _san_ says!”  
  
And that brought them to the present: in front of the great factory complex within the district. Getting through was not an issue: she was, after all, a _Battleship, Hotel Yamato or no,_ and that automatically meant clearance and deference.  
  
The real problem, of course, was getting lost in the factory. It was a _huge_ complex that fleetgirls did not visit unless and until they _really_ needed to, for good reason: There was smoke and dust everywhere, and where there _wasn't_ some sort of pollution, it meant the place had been mothballed. Yamato did not know if that was better or worse.  
  
This time around, however, Yamato was in quite a bit of luck. They'd been walking for less than a few hundred meters through when she recognized a very familiar shade of green hair walking towards the gate.  
  
“Ah, Yuubari- _san_!” she waved her hand.  
  
“Yamato- _san_?” exclaimed Yuubari – not without astonishment. “What brought you-” Then her eyes fell upon the elf, and she fell silent. It looked like it took her all self-control not to gawk. Indeed, Elrohir was quite... striking, in a lot of ways.  
  
“Elrohir, son of Elrond Master of the Last Homely House, envoy in my Father's name to the Naval District, at your service” said the elf. “And you are...”  
  
“Y-Yuubari, sole Light Cruiser of the Yuubari-class Experimental Cruiser, s-sir!” She was bowing repeatedly. Something could be said about her anime-dominated private life not lending itself very well to her social interaction with strangers.  
  
“I wanted to visit your workshops and manufactury, and Lady Yamato agreed,” said Elrohir. “Are you in charge of the place?”  
  
“Um... no, I'm not,” she said. Her eyes sparkled. “But I can still give you a tour!” she exclaimed. “I know the place better than any other fleet girl but Akashi herself!”  
  
And then it began.  
  
They walked down the asphalt path and through a very great doorway leading to the berth, and then another set of doors into the main factory floor. As they traipsed deeper and deeper into the compound, any green and life quickly became replaced with grey, black and steel-blue at best, plus the every-expanding patches of rust. The occasional workers in plain-colored work-clothes didn't help the impression very much.  
  
Yamato saw a small frown on the elf's face. There was a look of both small disdain and great pity in the way his eyes moved about the factory floor – and not entirely because of the heat and the stuffiness and the smell of lubricants. He was polite enough not to say anything, but if what Nagato said about the elves' love for elegant things was true, he was probably trying his _utmost_ to tolerate the place.  
  
It was fortunate in a sense that at the moment of his visit most of the facilities weren't actually running. The massive cranes and heavy machinery were not at work, because no ship to build and no steel. The steelworks was cold and unlit, because no iron and no coal. The specialized burner, smelter and assorted equipment for rubber was as cold and empty as a haunted house, because no rubber, no sulfur and, again, no coal. The factory-sized brand-sparkling-new LNG generator just installed a mere _week_ before this mess happened was working up no power, because the people of Middle-earth would probably go cross-eyed at the mere mention of _methane_.  
  
Instead most of the factory workers were clumped around a section of the floor, that altogether looked more like a makeshift repair workshop than a manufactury for _making new things_. Light tools were the name of the game, with only the occasional drill and angle-grinders being the heaviest tools about. And even then, the walls had been plastered with messages that said **「エネルギを節約せよ！** 」 in bright red character, with a sketch of Akashi shouting beneath them.  
  
“I'm sorry if the place doesn't look that... pretty,” said Yuubari bashfully. Since being moored, she'd been Akashi's assistant in keeping the place under good shape, and that simply _wasn't_ working out too well.  
  
“Is this...” He tried to draw a breath, but sputtered and coughed. The air quality inside was just _that_ bad; the air filter apparently one of the items in need of repair. “Is this where you make all of your wondrous weapons and crafts?”  
  
“Well... yes and no,” said Yuubari. “We can assemble most of the stuff here, but that would require hundreds of supporting, specialized factories for a million smaller things we need for the machines to work out.” She spoke as she walked, leading Yamato and Elrohir behind her. “This here is originally a front-line shipwright; except we're not building any right now for obvious reasons. So it's become now something of a machine shop; you keep it fed with parts, and it will get your things repaired. You starve it, and... well, let's just say most of the tools here would be better used broken apart into things we might actually need more.”  
  
“Can these tools you do have,” he said, “not be used to make those smaller things you said?”  
  
“Ah, that's the billion-yen question,” said Yuubari. “We... sort of can; most of the tools can be repurposed and recaliberated, and at least the precision machine tools are quite functional – but that leads to the next problem-”  
  
It was then that Yamato caught a mass of pink hair poking out from behind a welding-mask. They'd skirted close enough to the working corner for Akashi to catch them.  
  
Around whipped the resident repair ship. “Hey, Yuu- _chan_!” she called out shrilly. “Didn't I leave a couple of fuel filters here the other day?”  
  
She looked, if anything, even _more_ overworked than Kirishima: hair dissheveled, uniform sleeve rolled up unevenly, fashionable stockings and loafer discarded in favor of a pair of really big boots. Any humor about her was _gone_ , in its place a whole lot of annoyance and frustration.  
  
Yuubari sighed. “You mean the broken one?” she hollered over the sound of drilling that broke out behind her. “A couple boys from Section Two asked for it yesterday to be broken down into scraps and you said yes, didn't you?”  
  
“You sure?” said Akashi. “I'm pretty darn sure we've got one more just hanging about here somewhere-”  
  
“No we don't,” said Yuubari. “Unless you mean that filter burnt into an unrecognizable mess last week. I've tossed it into the smelter.”  
  
Akashi threw her hands up. “Ah, this won't do, this won't do,” she murmured to herslef. “Alright, I must stay calm, I must stay calm- Tomokazu- _kun_ , what's next on the to-fix-list?” The eyes she flashed at the nearest yellow-helmeted technician was a little scary. “Actually, scratch that, just _give me the list_.”  
  
“Um-” said Yamato. “Could I help somehow, Akashi-s _an_?”  
  
“Pretty sure you can't, Yamato- _san_ ; this is specialist work,” said Akashi. “And who's that guy? A Kabuki performer from-,” Her waving hand stopped in mid-air. Her astonishment was very, very contained if nothing else. “Oh, wait, you're that guy the Admiral is sending for from that Rivendell place, right? I might've been told about you.” She sighed. “Sorry about that. Temper's running a bit hot here these days.”  
  
“Truly a misfortune that your workshop does not lend itself to the cooling of heads,” said Elrohir. “Pardon me – I meant not to judge.”  
  
Akashi shook her head, “Well, what do you expect?” she said, wiping her forehead. “It's _heavy industry_ , just a step below hellfire on a _good_ day. And oh, it's even hotter if run at full capacity; we've got a _steel furnace_ around here if you looked! But I'd be so _happy_ if the whole place could run as intended.”  
  
She turned her neck towards the work-bench near her, littered with bits and pieces of iron, steel, plastic, wires missing insulator, tiny lights with burnt tungsten hair, and a hundred little things in various states of salvageability. The elf coughed into his palm again.  
  
“See, that's another batch of-” She glanced down her list. “broken radios, shot engines, leaky fuel tanks, and a gas burner that imploded itself... oh, and two of the privates _accidently breaking_ a... a really delicate thing you can't find replacements easily _on a good day_ back in mainland Japan, and-” She wiped her forehead again. “-and yeah, spare parts – if this goes on we'll have to start cannibalizing cross-branch for spare parts.”  
  
For all his supposed discomfort, Elrohir nodded sympathetically – and then his eyes began to wander all over the place, before stopping on the workbench. “May I look at some of the things you have here?”  
  
“Sure, just help yourself to the broken useless bits 'cause you wouldn't like to be a nuisance and break something irreplaceable,” said Akashi crossly. “And don't touch that flamethrower – that's the last functional one we've got, and yes it can and will melt your face right off if it had the fuel.” Her muttering voice trailed off. “It's not like there's enough fuel oil for the _welders_ too...”  
  
If the elf had been offended by her crossness, he didn't much show it. “Pardon me, but are these the same kind of material you employ as weapons?” he said, examining – with his eyes – what looked like a busted carburettor with its rubber part molten into a disgusting blob. “I was under the impression, by Lady Nagato's words, that all you _Ciryanetti_ require is food-”  
  
Akashi stopped tinkering with the radio part; she spun around and _glared_ at him. ' _Is this guy for real?_ was written clear cross her face. It took her a good five seconds to tone down that face; her palm hitting her forehead and stayed there for another five.  
  
“Okay, I know, I know, low-tech folks and all,” she said. “Let's make this simple, okay? Anything linked to the fleetgirls – that's us – our fairies can fix them no problem as long as there's enough food to go around; thanks a lot to you folks for that, I mean it. Anything and everything else? It's good old industry and manufacturing. Steel, rubber, oil, tungsten for the lamps, silicon for the semiconductors, and plastic for pretty much everything.”  
  
She folded her arms; glaring at the workers on the side who'd now stopped working and stealing glances at her. Then when the poor fellow had gone back to work, she turned back to Elrohir. Her voice lowered dramatically.  
  
“Now, not all of the fleetgirls are aware just how _shot to pieces_ the fundamental infrastructure would look in a year or so without supplies, and frankly? I'd prefer them not know if I can, 'specially the destroyers. So please for the love of whatever deity you believe in, do _not_ go blabber about what you see here to any ship that isn't a heavy cruiser or above. Or better, don't talk about it at all.”  
  
“I shall not,” said Elrohir.  
  
“Good,” said Akashi, puffing her chest. “Now where was I? Oh, right, material. Don't get me wrong, the moment you give me one ton of pure unvulcanized Indian rubber I can cook up something good for all of the spare-part-hungry little kiddos all about here. So long as it exists in your world and you folks are fine with us grabbing a bunch of the good stuff. Same for silicon and sulfur and anything up to and including _uranium_. That's _literally_ what I exist for; I've got a million patented designs my fairies are just floating about in a mess in my bridge right here just waiting for the material to come in.”   
  
She thumbed at her head and sighed. “I just hope there is at least some rubber or chicle you wouldn't mind us growing in a clump, because otherwise we can kiss air-con goodbye for good next year among other inconveniences; the system's already sputtering and it's summer soon enough. Now you can go and ask the boys in the mess, place's a darned furnace – their words, not mine. And then there's-”  
  
She said all of this so _very fast_ that Yamato was feeling a bit dizzy. “Um,” she said. “I'm sure our guest would have appreciated, Akashi- _san_ , if you would slow down just a little _-_?”  
  
But Elrohir stood forward, and waved his hand. “I am not well learnt in this matter,” he said. “All the same there are those who stand a fair chance of knowing them. My grandmother who dwells now in Lorien a way from here would know of many things that grow and the bounties they would grant.” He drew himself up tall, and suddenly the heat did not quite seem to affect him so much any more. “Tell me what you need. I shall speak to those who can help. If what you need grow in the green earth we would know of them. If they do not, and instead lay deep beneath the ground never graced by sunlight, the dwarves would have well know.”  
  
“Eh? Are you sure about that?” Akashi said.  
  
“Do not discount the craft of the Noldor,” said Elrohir. “I should not like to overblow the achievement of my people, but there shall exist no craft as great as the _Silmaril_ i which Feanor my kin wrought ere the Sun arose in the world.”  
  
“Great!” said Akashi. Sarcasm? Perhaps, perhaps not; Yamato couldn't tell so well over the sound of machinery and her expression, wracked by sleep deprivation as it was. “You know what, you get some of the things in-” She reached for her pocket, and frowned. “Kishimoto- _kun,_ Kishimoto- _kun_? Where's my notepad?” The named tech officer hobbled by with the notepad on a clipboard and a pen for good measure. “Thanks,” she said, and began jotting down notes.  
  
She wrote _monstrously quickly_ , and in a minute or so had filled up two pages – on both sides. Yamato took a glance at it: The first column had “ _Rubber_ ” with a terse, almost rude-sounding, description of what the plant is and what to get from it. The fourth column read “ _Sulfur – that yellow thing that burns really bright and smells really bad_ ”.  
  
“Yeah, I know you've got an appointment with the Admiral for some more complex things,” she said, pushing the piece of paper into Elrohir's hand. “But if you'd be a _darling_ and grab me some of the stuff here, I'll treat you to lunch at the Yamato Hotel for a month-” At this she stopped, and stole a very guilty look at Yamato. “Err... you _are_ on my side, right, Yamato- _san_?”  
  
The abruptness of her speech startled Yamato.  
  
But soon enough her lips crinkled into a small smile. She was not meant to be Hotel Yamato, but if that was how she could help the most, then why not bear that title with pride?  
  
“Most certainly, Akashi- _san._ ” she said.

*****  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to practice a lot of restraint, so that Akashi and Yuubari do not turn out character-wise to be like MHA's Hatsume Mei, who is indeed more like the kind of character I'd prefer to have on hand for this sort of interaction. In fact, for you who don't know MHA, look up pictures of Hatsume Mei, and tell me she isn't Akashi's long lost sister.


	26. Part the Twenty-Sixth

**PART THE TWENTY-SIXTH**   
  
**IN WHICH A LETTER WAS DELIVERED AND THE MATTERS OF DWARVES, DRAGON AND MATERIEL CONSIDERED**

  
It was well past lunchtime when Kirishima ushered the elven ambassador through the winding corridors of the admiralty and into the Admiral's office. He'd had only a fifteen-minute lunch and a ten-minute nap. The workload had nowhere to go but up.  
  
When she entered the room the Admiral had roused from his nap. He was actually waiting at his table, perusing a report printed double-sided.  
  
The room had been plainly arranged for a simple meeting: she'd prepared two sofas arranged opposite each other across a tea table and a set of cups (for show; warm sugared water was _still_ all they had). The rest was all diplomatic protocol. Bow. Shake hands. Exchange of pleasantries. That sort of thing – which she could swear she never had much patience for anyway. Instead she stole off to close the window blinds. The sun was so bright out there, it made her sleep-deprived nerve tingle uncomfortably.  
  
The first sign that things was going to get _tense_ quickly, was the first matter the Admiral touched upon.  
  
“I hope your morning around the district has been pleasant,” he said. “Unfortunately I was informed of a... most regrettable incident near the dock; for which I wish you would accept my apology on behalf of my subordinate.” He bowed.  
  
Kirishima twitched uncomfortably in her place. How was it at all possible that the Admiral wasn't even blushing? She hadn't even listened to the whole lurid business Iku was telling so enthusiastically, and she was already flushing uncontrollably.  
  
“I accept, milord,” said Elrohir. His voice was particularly strained. “All the same the rumour visited upon my ears is a most grievous one, malicious though it may not have been. This I should like to have rectified, in whichever way you judge fitting, lest undue hearsay mar the good name of my House and your deputy.”  
  
“There will be measures,” said the Admiral with a sharp nod. “Now, to my understanding your father has a letter addressed to me. May I have a look at it?”  
  
The elf bowed most politely, then produced the sealed envelope. He gave it to the Admiral, who opened it, and, as if they had had a prior understanding, immediately turned the letter over to the elf again. Kirishima stole a glance at it: the script written on the letter was utterly incomprehensible to her eyes.  
  
Then the elf began to read it aloud.  
  
The first part was nothing special: expression of gratitude, formalities, and an official confirmation of the exchange of envoy. It was still about a page long – Kirishima was having her intelligence fairies jot the whole thing down while she was half-dozing at the Admiral's side. She would have fallen _fully_ asleep, had the elf's voice not had a certain kind of melody to it – that made it quite pleasant to hear and not quite as formal as the words themselves were. It sounded like he was reciting poetry, not reading off a letter.  
  
And then came the next part of the letter, and _now_ that was actually interesting. And pertinent – in more than one way.  
  
“ _And as to Gandalf's business, it is his desire that its true extent remain unknown to all but his Order, of which I am member. Yet in lights of your letter I find it exceedingly unseemly to conceal it from you, not least because in his zeal and secrecy he has involved your subordinates, who would have otherwise nothing to do with it._  
  
_Your envoy the Lady Nagato and I have discussed at length the great evil that once plagued this fair world of ours. Please pardon me the assumption that you have been informed somewhat about the Enemy Sauron, and for the sake of brevity I shall not herein write of him – nor of our very bitter struggle against his malice and wickedness._  
  
_(Ours have been a long and sorrowful tale, and it would be pretentious and ill-mannered of me to attempt to recite it all in this letter. My son shall, of course, be quite elated to relate to you and your men our full history, in as much detail as you would desire; perhaps only with the caveat that he is not eyewitness to as much of its length as I am.)_  
  
_To keep short an already hefty discourse, Gandalf and I are both of the opinion that the bitterest Enemy of ours walks abroad still, defeated and humbled as he seems to have been; recent events have done nothing but strengthen our belief that this is indeed the case. Yet the head of our Council, Saruman the White - another wizard of greater power and wisdom than Gandalf and myself - has deigned against taking any action, for reasons only known to himself. For the last many years Gandalf, and on occasions I, have tried to persuade him without success._  
  
_Without Saruman's approval, all we can hope to achieve is remove as many of the Enemy's potential allies as we can. The great worm Smaug, who had many years ago devastated the dwarves' homeland, is the strongest and direst of his kind that the Enemy may put under his spell. If allowed to fall into the thrall of the Enemy, he would arise a terrible scourge against all who dwell in the North, from the Great Eagles to the peaceful Men who log and farm and fish East and West of the Misty Mountains alike. As such, the dragon must be vanquished and laid low before this comes to pass._  
  
_The dwarves of old have had a good history of being dragon-slayers (or at the very least, abetting those who would be dragon-slayers). This is why Gandalf has been of the belief that a mighty King of the Dwarves, with proper authority and power to gather his people from all corners of Middle-earth (for theirs is a scattered folk with a history no less tragic than any), would be the most decisive means to vanquish Smaug for good._  
  
_The dwarves, unfortunately, currently have no King with such authority as to sound the summon – a late King of their folk had decreed that only one in possession of the Arkenstone, chiefest and brightest of all treasures of the dwarves, may ascend to the throne. Alas, the gemstone had been lost to the dwarves in the dragon's possession, likely buried underneath the mountain of dwarven gold that he now makes into his bed, and with its loss the throne of King Under the Mountain remains yet unoccupied._  
  
_Gandalf's original plan was to enlist a friend of his (whom he believes a great burglar) to travel to Erebor and steal the Arkenstone for the dwarves; so that Thorin Oakenshield, heir apparent to the Mountain Throne, may truly assume his crown and mount an attack against Smaug. However, your arrival has changed everything; since your_ Ciryanetti _command so much strength, it is no longer implausible to consider challenging the Dragon to a battle from the very outset. Gandalf is convinced also, that with the right preparations such an expedition might well be less costly in dwarven-lives than he had originally envisioned._  
  
_(The fall of Erebor, to my estimate, resulted in thousands of dwarven dead, brutally slain by the dragon's fire and claw and by the collapse of their many halls; and even a successful dwarven expedition against the dragon may well see many hundreds slain before the day is won)._  
  
_Gandalf is yet unaware of how inconvenient his plans have been to you (or how terribly incriminating against four otherwise tender and innocent women they are also). In his zeal, I believe, he cannot think of any reason why you would oppose to this adventure; as for one Smaug would be a terrible foe should he be enthralled and empowered by the Enemy's spell, and for the other your doing a favour to the dwarves, in his view, would do nothing but strengthen your cause and endear you to the Free Peoples of Middle-earth._  
  
_Now, I beg your understanding: I exert no control or influence over Gandalf but our friendship of two millennia and the mutual respect it implies. For the same bond, I assure you the good wizard is neither malicious nor wicked, nor stubborn in his way; and in fact is very receptive of wise counsel freely given._  
  
_Perhaps your Naval District and him can come to an understanding, and in the best case, collaboration. His expedition, which I am convinced now includes your four subordinates also, is headed for my House: he should arrive at my doorstep, unless otherwise greatly delayed, before Midsummer's Eve. I would like to kindly invite you – or if you are otherwise indisposed, the Lady Nagato – to parley with the good wizard. Let me express my trust that such would result in the best outcome for all concerned._  
  
_And, at the risk of being presumptuous, I should like to implore you to consider pardoning your four subordinates, or at least not treat them too harshly. While I am unsure what has happened between Gandalf and them, I am all too convinced that he has appealed to their sense of justice and altruism (or perhaps their love for excitement and adventure; which, though less noble, is altogether undeserving of severe censure)._  
  
_At any rate, the chiefest blame for this debacle, as much as it pains me to admit, lies with my Council's hatred of the Enemy and our enthusiasm to lay him low, rather than any malice or malpractice, and not with your subordinates._ ”  
  
Having read the last line – pleasantries and cordialities – Elrohir passed the paper over to the Admiral. He took it with both hands – and then at once passed it to Kirishima. She went a little cross-eyed at the flowery script.  
  
“I see,” the Admiral said. “I shall patch a message through to Nagato, and let your father know I am grateful for the communication.” He clasped his wrinkling hands. “I wish this matter of the dwarves has been clarified earlier. It would have saved us a lot of effort second-guessing.”  
  
Elrohir's face was all business and no emotion. “I would take it, milord, that you would like to assist them?”  
  
The Admiral placed his palm over his chin, and stayed quiet for a time.  
  
“For the record, I never said that,” he said at last. “You would understand, we've come from a time and place where interfering with the business of a royal family in exile is _heavily_ frowned upon, even if I personally may sympathize with their cause.” His smile was very forced. “But if the dragon is truly a security risk to this part of your world, then perhaps we would have little choice but to lend our hand.”  
  
Kirishima swallowed hard. When she stepped into the room, knowing the content of the letter the Admiral had sent and the likely answer, she had been occupied solely by anxiousness for her sister – particularly as the general staff had been... scathing. But now she felt like kicking herself more than ever:  
  
_All of this mess wouldn't have happened had I not said no to the wizard without second thought_.  
  
She quashed down the thought as soon as it arose.  
  
She was the secretary ship – it wasn't her place and she never claimed to be any more qualified than any other capital ship around. But if she was to be _here_ , then all of her smarts and intelligence-gathering had to be good for something.  
  
“May I speak, sir?” she asked, and when the Admiral nodded, she cleared her voice and began. “What do you think of Thorin Oakenshield? Is he someone you would call... trustworthy?”  
  
“I don't know him personally, milady, though my Father has on a few occasions met his grandfather and father,” said Elrohir. “These meetings didn't usually end on a high note; for the nobility of dwarves are often secretive and quarrelsome with folks not their own. All the same the Rangers do speak decently of those dwarves of Thorin Oakenshield's lineage who now dwell far to the West, in the Blue Mountain,” He paused, as though looking for a good conclusion. “Thorin's folk are perhaps not heroes like their distant forefathers, but not quite so wicked or untrustworthy that we would turn them aside at our door.”  
  
“And the dragon?” said Kirishima. “Just how powerful is this creature?”  
  
The elf steepled his finger, and there was direness in his tone. “Enough,” he said, “that he has sat unchallenged for ten years and seven-score in the ruins of Erebor. Though very great was his devastation of both Dale and Erebor no one has yet stood up to avenge them; and though very great was his treasure no one has yet thought of challenging him for it also. And this, too: the fire-drakes of Morgoth grow mightier as they age, and Smaug is perhaps the oldest of his sort that had survived the Age now only told in myths. It has been many years since he last awoke, and many more – centuries, perhaps, even millennia – since the Eldar of my Father's House has had to confront the fire-drakes such as his like.”  
  
_Now for the billion-yen question._ “How do you think he would measure up against us?” she said.  
  
At once Elrohir stiffened. “I take no joy in answering question, milady,” he said, the graveness in his voice only grew. “But for the sake of friendship I would so attempt; pray pardon me if I were to err in any way.” He straightened his back. “I say if every of you who are as mighty as Lady Akagi were to gather in one place and direct all of your chiefest and most calamitous of weapons at the dragon, then a dozen Smaugs would doubtlessly fall even had there ever been that many of him. But under such sheer devastation, I fear by the time the dust settles the Lonely Mountain itself would be no more, and that part of the North would be so utterly reduced that neither Man nor Dwarves would find much value in whatever would remain.”  
  
Kirishima saw his fingers tremble as his hand reached out for his glass. “Are you alright, Elrohir- _san_?” The elf was quickly draining his glass, as if to swallow an especially bitter aftertaste.  
  
“I am sorry,” he then said. “I was there to dispose of all of the goblin dead after the fight with Lady Akagi. The devastation was unspeakably cruel and of a sort I would ill like to describe in polite company. Indeed I should like to speak no more of this business, for truly it hangs like a shroud before my very eyes!”  
  
Now the Admiral was doing nothing but listen and taking notes. Then he looked up, and spoke with a measured voice. “Do you think, sir, if there are anyone who would dispute Thorin Oakenshield's claim to the throne?”  
  
Kirishima went “Eh?”  
  
But the elf seemed to understand the point. “I do not think so, milord,” he said. “Thorin Oakenshield is the only surviving son of the only surviving son of the last King Under the Mountain ere it fell to the dragon. He does have a sister and two sister-sons, but by all laws recognized by the dwarves and the Free Peoples alike his claim to Kingship is clad in tenfold steel – provided, of course, that he has the Arkenstone in hand.”  
  
The Admiral drew himself straight. “I shall be honest,” he said, “when Gandalf first came here petitioning for aid for the dwarves, a good half of my lieutenants were against it. For one, we have our pride; two of my subordinates were especially _annoyed_ that the wizard had even thought to entice us with gold and gems. And for the other, it would be quite disastrous for my men if I backed the wrong horse – let's say if Thorin should fail and an enemy of his should become king of the dwarf and decide to make an enemy out of us for supporting him. We _are_ not abundant in resources.”  
  
“Which is a very valid concern, milord,” said the elf. “As for your issue with material and resources, I've been quite informed.” He produced from the fold of his blue cloak what looked like a neatly folded piece of... Campus notepaper? He turned it over to the Admiral.  
  
The Admiral's eyes scanned the sheet quickly. “This is my subordinate Akashi's writing,” he said. “Where did you come by this?”  
  
“She asked me if I could help her procure the materials here written,” he said. “Even with Lady Yamato's help with explanation, I must admit I know very little about these material, but for the guess that some of them can be found quite abundantly underground. That is all the more reason, if you should ask for my counsel, to make all haste in extending friendship with the dwarves; they do take pride in knowing the earth and its bounty more than anyone else alive.”  
  
“I don't understand,” said Kirishima. “If the dwarves are really producing so much steel and iron and other things, why don't we see much trade at all in Bree?”  
  
“That is because the dwarves do not trade with the outside world very much; preferring to keep jealously guarded the finest and most beautiful of their craft. The things they sell abroad are the lesser of their ware,” said Elrohir. “In this they are not much different from us; they would make beautiful things not necessarily to be sold to the highest bidder, but to be laid in great hoards to be treasured and admired. They can be persuaded to change their ways, either with gold, which is the baser but easier way; or with true friendship, which is that much harder to cultivate yet stronger than mithril if successful.”  
  
“It's something we'll seriously take into consideration,” said the Admiral at long last – handing Elrohir back the notepaper. “The matter of resources has been brought to my attention from the very first day – our arrival here has disrupted the entire supply chain my base depends on. For the greater part of the last month I have been struggling to find solutions that might as well not exist – for _rubber_ and _bauxite_ and a whole list of others.”  
  
The Admiral's voice lowered now, as if afraid of being listened on. “That's part of the reason I've sent a group to Bree looking for opportunities to procure things,” he said. “It's a journey made in vain hope, you can say, because it's such a small village by my world's standard and has hardly any industry at all. But then again, yours this is a very different world than ours; who is to say the dwarves don't have representatives selling bauxite already?” He shook his head. “It... has not been a very successful attempt.”  
  
Now Elrohir folded his hand by the tea-cup, and bright blazes were in his eyes. “I think that much can well be inferred from the matter raised in your letter, milord,” he asked. “The _Ciryanetti_ you mentioned by name are... Fubuki, Kongou, Mutsuki and Yuudachi, if I pronounce them well enough to be recognizable?”  
  
The atmosphere in the room sank. A lump raised in Kirishima's throat. Nobody spoke – as the Admiral took a cigarette off his packet and flicked his lighter. He blew out not a smoke ring, but a misshapen cloud of milk-white, and only began speaking when it had dissipated.  
  
“Indeed,” he said. “Their... problem with Gandalf has been _very_ hard to handle. I don't want to punish them, not at all, let me be clear. In fact if not for a... technicality, they would not have to bear any sort of blame but for a stern talking-to.”  
  
“Which is to say, they will _still_ be punished?”  
  
“I won't rule out that possibility, though I _will_ try to do something against a harsh ruling. There will be an inquiry by my general staff office to look into whether they have violated regulations, and if so to what extent,” said the Admiral. “Their odds are not very good.”  
  
Elrohir inhaled deep – Kirishima could see his chest heave beneath his cloak – then exhaled loudly. “What have you in mind for them, if I may ask?” he said.  
  
“That's for the committee to decide, not me,” the Admiral said. “I can only promise that their case would be justly considered – as justly as can be given the circumstance. If judged guilty, though, at the very worst Fubuki would be removed from her position as flagship of her fleet and possibly held under detention, pending further investigation. And Kongou...”  
  
Kirishima shuddered. The Admiral hadn't quite told Kirishima what would be done to her sister yet, but given the minutes of the last few general staff meetings? The prospects... weren't good.  
  
What he said next all but confirmed her worst fears.  
  
“My general staff believe her _very_ complicit in Fubuki's breach of procedures; whatever measures Fubuki would be subjected to, Kongou would not be far behind,” he said. “Not that it matters much; if they would put Fubuki in the brig and not do the same to Kongou, she'd shove herself into the cell and swallow the key for good measures.” He tapped his half-smoked cig against the ashtray. “In any case, much as I am thankful for your Father's end of the story, ultimately handling their case would be our own business.”  
  
Elrohir shifted uneasily in his chair. “Truly, o lord, that you must defer judgement to your reeves and enforcers for such a matter? Do not take my words as an insult, milord, but such delegation of judgement is not quite the way of kings!”  
  
“But I am no king, sir,” said the Admiral firmly – sounding almost _offended_. “My people are beholden to no king except His Majesty the Emperor of Japan and her Constitution. Absent as His Majesty is in your world, to give myself in pretension that authority only He wields, even though I am indeed the highest-ranking officer here, is treason, and very few if any of my own men would stand by that.”  
  
At once the room fell silent. The elf opened his mouth, but no word came out. Perhaps he'd been annoyed. Or surprised. Or even disappointed, and Kirishima could understand somewhat. He must have come here in the belief that he was talking to a head of state, not to a general representing an Emperor who was in another plane of existence entirely.  
  
“I... cannot say I fully understand your circumstance, milord,” he finally said. “And this I do not understand most of all: does my Father's letter change your position any? If you have deemed them guilty and to be punished in the first place, why ask Father for counsel at all?”  
  
Heat rose to Kirishima's face. She didn't know which was frustrating her more, the fact that the discussion was hammering in the point that _bad things were going to happen to Kongou_ , or that Elrohir's words made her feel so _patronized_. And when she was cross and frustrated, her well-vaunted intellect would just _melt_ away.  
  
“Why does it even matter to you so much?” she snapped and blurted out the first thing on her mind. “You don't even know Fubuki- _chan_. Or my sister.”  
  
Kirishima had only finished when her eyes recorded a stern glare from the Admiral, that all but screamed ' _You've spoken out of turn. Again.'_ at her. She swallowed the lump in her throat, and took one step back.  
  
The elf either did not detect this body language – or alternately, he had, and ignored it anyway. He stood up and faced Kirishima.  
  
“Because, o Lady Kirishima,” he said, “all of this has come to pass because of a very close friend of ours, who has to date done nothing but the utmost of good to my kin and myself.” He was now standing indefatigably straight and tall, and his voice was like a newly-minted great bell in a Shinto shrine chiming for the first time. “Were you in my place, would you not extend your hands in mercy? Would you not try to right a wrong committed by a longtime friend, unwittingly as it might have been? Would you not seek to provide redress for misplaced justice?”  
  
Now the Admiral shook his head. White smoke was wafting all about him. “Elrohir _-san_ ,” he said. “If I were a private citizen, yes, I would do exactly what you say and let them go free with maybe a sternly-worded scolding for underestimating a _wizard_. But I am an officer in charge of a military installation of the JSDF, and it has rules, and my position demands that I uphold them to the best of my capacity.” His forehead creased. “As for why I had to consult your Father, it is because I would be hard-pressed to defend these four subordinates before an inquiry if I don't know _exactly_ what had happened.”  
  
“Milord,” he said. “Is there anything, anything at all, that I may do to secure their pardon? Or if at all possible, help them?”  
  
“For that, you should ask Gandalf for his account of the incident,” said the Admiral. “Although I would not bet on it; Fubuki has all but confessed what she did was a... a breach of regulations, and so has Kongou. Once it is brought before a disciplinary committee for a hearing, their confessions does matter... a little more, than Gandalf's statement – and that is if there's any from the wizard.”  
  
“If I may,” said Elrohir, “ _why_ would they make such a confession?”  
  
“I wish I knew enough to tell you,” the Admiral said with a sigh.  
  
Kirishima shifted in her place. _Because Fubuki-chan is such a precious, pure thing,_ she could almost hear him say. Although she'd understand he wouldn't be caught dead saying that to _anyone_ , much less an outsider and a foreigner at that.  
  
And Kongou?  
  
Her sister had a very personal reason, too, to be so honest and self-condemning when faced with such a disciplinary charge. A reason Kongou wouldn't like anyone to shout at her face, but it was there and Kirishima knew it; a reason that began with _Siemens_ , ended with _Vickers_ , and had _Matsumoto Kazu_ somewhere in the middle.  
  
That aside, now she had to find a way of _really_ break the news to Hiei without her second eldest sister going _absolutely nuts_.  
  
The day had nowhere to go but down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For background involving Kongou and "corruption", google "The Siemens Scandal".


	27. Part the Twenty-Seventh

 

**PART THE TWENTY-SEVENTH**  
  
**IN WHICH KONGOU INSPIRED A STRANGE MOOD**  
  
_(Aka. In which this author cribbed from Peter Jackson's way of storytelling)_

  
  
  
It was not Thorin Oakenshield, heir to the Mountain Throne that first gathered the courage to approach the ship-daughters. Neither was it Balin, chiefest of his advisors, nor Dwalin, chiefest of his champions. The Company's rogues, spies and burglars were similarly disinclined: Bofur (correctly) pointed out that with a woman who could not just defeat but _blow up_ trolls there was only so much sneaking can do, and Nori had bailed from day one for much the same reason. The valiant burglar Master Boggins had, himself, yet to recover from his shock at whatever he had seen of the four women.  
  
In the end, it was Kili, the Spare among Thorin's heirs.  
  
If anyone would ask him it was only an accidental meeting and one thing leading to another; because Mahal helped him if he'd let anyone find out he was purposefully seeking out Miss Kongou, dangers and perils be damned.  
  
Nor would he tell anyone, not even his brother, that his first impression of the woman had been nothing but immaculate. She carried herself in such grace and such elegance, and yet with so much energy and passion, two qualities virtually impossible to merge. Her countenance was soft and kindly and worshipful, and inspiring both the pure devoted passion and the baser one. And a kind of cold fire danced in her eyes whenever she looked upon the company; of great displeasure, perhaps; but Kili had at once thought would not object all the hatred of hers, and whatever thunder and fire she harnessed also, directed at him if he could only see those eyes at _him_.  
  
Something had been moved within him, and he'd sworn to himself that he should speak to her, and if not possible, then perhaps admire her from a distance. For the dwarves loved beauty, too, in their own way and with no less fervour than the elves with whom they were estranged, and Kili saw her the epitome of beauty given form.  
  
Once he had approached Gandalf and asked about her. He was careful – insofar as a Son of Dis could be careful – and tried not to betray the consuming admiration burning him inside out.  
  
“Her name's Kongou – that's _diamond_ in her tongue,” the _Tharkun_ had answered. “And now off you go! Bother her not! Trouble not your Uncle with picking up bits of you off the ground!” Neither of them said any more, but Kili now knew for certain he could not hope to conceal anything of such magnitude to the wizard. But now he'd known her name, and he'd told himself, there was no diamond save for the Great Jewel told by his kin in Nogrod in the Age of Myth that could equal her radiance.  
  
His opportunity to witness her, as it happened, came in one of the nights they'd camped on a dry patch next to a brook. The sky was cloudless and the moon was shining so bright upon the camp, and for the first time in maybe a week the dwarves were finally singing and drinking and making merry again: they'd had a couple of very good days on the road without having to carry too much supplies. For all their aloofness, the ship-daughters did offer to carry a monstrous share of the dwarves' luggage for them.  
  
But in the middle of the night Kili stopped singing and looked to the other side of the camp where the ship-daughters stayed. He saw Miss Kongou setting her things aside, standing up and leaving the site.  
  
Overcome by curiosity and a very great and quite pure desire to know her better, Kili stood up too. It was, however, only a short while later that he decided to actually trail after her. His fear of what flame and thunder she might bring to bear was very great also, and it was all his bravery could do to triumph over his fright.  
  
Now Kili was neither a thief nor a rogue, but he was a hunter who'd traveled much cross forest-paths and down bushy banks. The thought was bitter, how a Prince of Erebor was reduced to little more than a poacher, but it was neither helpful nor relevant now. He tailed her, keeping himself hidden behind bushes and rocks, though now less like a hunter and more like a supplicant trailing a vengeful, elusive goddess, until finally he saw her stop at a quiet corner by the brook-side.  
  
Long did she tarry beneath the open sky, the silver moon glazing her back, her hair fluttering in the wind; the waves on the brook danced reflecting the stars upon the sky. Kili was so moved he wished for no more than a very great forge piled high with silver and gold and mithril – and of course diamonds as per her namesake – so that he could imprint this beautiful image of hers into a sculpture imperishable, to be kept as a heirloom of his House. And at that moment he felt duly cursed, for at the end of his journey sat a dragon, against whom he might well not survive, and the beauty that he now beheld would perish with him also, to the great loss of his House, and of beauty itself also.  
  
But soon footsteps approached, and with it the serene beauty was broken. Out from the shadow came one of the other ship-daughters, in her odd knee-length skirt and scarf; she drew close in soft steps, anxious and trembling. He knew her, but only by name: Fubuki she was called, or _Blizzard_ in her tongue  
  
“Kongou- _san_ ,” she said, and her voice was filled with distress.  
  
“Ah, Bucky!” said Miss Kongou, and her voice was joyful like all the nightingales in the sky. “What's up?”  
  
“I was looking for you,” said Miss Fubuki. “What... are you doing here?”  
  
“Just taking in some fresh air,” said Miss Kongou. “Just in case they'd toss me into the dry-dock brig for a few months, y'know.”  
  
“Don't say that, Kongou- _san_!” She swallowed audibly. “I... I thought you should see this. From the Admiral,” she said, and handed Miss Kongou a sheet of paper hastily jotted down.  
  
“This is...” Kili thought he could _hear_ her eyes flash in the dark. “Oh. Wow.”  
  
Kili's heart began beating loud like so many drums while Miss Kongou's eyes scanned the paper, keenly and quickly. Then after what seemed like an Age and a half, apparently done, Miss Kongou folded the letter neatly into quarters and stuffed it into the folds of her shirt.  
  
For long she stood there, fingering her chin. “Not bad, eh, Bucky?” she said.  
  
Miss Fubuki's shoulder shuddered. “I don't understand,” she said. “Why would the Admiral send us Elrond- _san_ 's letter?”  
  
“He wants us to know what exactly is going on with old Gandy's schemes,” Miss Kongou said. “If we are to stand before a committee, it would help us defend ourselves.”  
  
“Stand before a committee...” said Miss Fubuki, and her voice was even fuller of distress.  
  
Her hand fell so tenderly on the younger girl's shoulder. “That's okay, Bucky,” she said. “I... It's my fault. To think the great Kongou would be so easily distracted by the prospect of hot food and pleasant conversations...”  
  
“I know,” said the younger girl. “That's... that's why I couldn't bear to stop you, Kongou- _san_ ,” she said. “I know you've been so... hungry and bored and just wanted some excitement. It's been a bad month...”  
  
Miss Kongou looked at her friend, and there was a misty twinkle in her eyes. “Just keep it between you and me, alright? That excuse isn't going to fly in front of a committee. _Dess_.”  
  
“But...”  
  
Miss Kongou raised a finger to her lips. Her fingers clutched Miss Fubuki's shoulder tight. “There's... actually another reason why I thought taking old Gandalf's offer is a good idea.”  
  
Fubuki turned up her neck. Her eyes blinked and twinkled.  
  
“Think about the letter he left us, Bucky,” said Miss Kongou. “How did the old codger know we would come there to Bree? How did he manage to arrange circumstances so that someone from the fleet _would_ pick up his letter? How did he know my name and Haruna- _chan_ 's?” Her voice rang like sharp steel. “I've thought of that since we slept over at old Radagast's place. Old Gandy _has_ been somehow intercepting our communications, there's no way around it.”  
  
“I've been thinking the same,” said Miss Fubuki. “But I've thought it's impossible – he might have made some lucky guesses, or maybe Akagi- _senpai_ 's fairy might have revealed things to Radagast- _san_ , who- _”_  
  
“Occam's Razor, Bucky. Simplest explanations are almost always right.”  
  
“But... but why did he have to do that?” said Miss Fubuki. “We aren't- we don't want to be his enemy; why would he-” A soft gasp escaped her. “Do you think... do you think he might be trying to undermine the fleet?”  
  
“No, I don't think he's been malicious, otherwise we'd be in a huge pile of crap right now, and I mean the entire fleet,” she said. “He's been trying to _facilitate_ whatever it is we are doing; with the payback being that we would join him on this adventure of his.” She paused. “That's why I thought rather than make a huge mess of it, we'll do it discreetly. Play along with Gandy, and then try to reason with him on our own terms rather than let the Admiral's staff raise a huge muck about it. We _don't_ want him as our enemy, not in our circumstances; this level of decryption makes _Midway_ look like a fine and dandy business. You know what the Chinese say, ' _a general out in the field can ignore the sovereign's order_ '”  
  
She pulled Miss Fubuki closer to her.  
  
“And if something went south I could make like ' _hey guys, it's my fault, not like this hasn't happened before_ '.” A quiet chuckle left her lips. “Had old Gandy not held _bed and breakfast_ over our heads like a club I would have succeeded, too. Or at least not failed so badly.”  
  
For a while Miss Fubuki stayed silent. When she started speaking, her voice was laced with tears. “Why didn't you tell me? I am... I _was_ the flagship, wasn't I?”  
  
Miss Kongou shook her head. “You're so by-the-book, Bucky,” she said, “you'll holler the whole thing so loud over the radio as to give the entire staff office a heart attack. Which they probably are _dying_ of right now when they find out exactly how much of our comm is compromised. And of course, yeah, the allure of tea, scone and pastries and pleasant conversations. Ah, if I ever come back to Bree again I'd give that Barnabas guy a big hug and tell him keep doing whatever he's doing, because his baking _rocks_.”  
  
Her hand left Miss Fubuki's shoulder, and began patting her head. “Don't worry so much, Bucky; if that other reason of mine doesn't fly, I'll say I pretty much overpowered you into playing along. I _am_ a fast battleship and you're just a destroyer. The excuse _may_ go better than you think.”  
  
“But... but that's so unfair on you...”  
  
“Didn't I tell you this has happened before?” said Miss Kongou. “To be Kongou means to be involved in one sort of shady corruption scandal or another. Compared to what went down _back then_ this is a slap on the wrist.”  
  
“But you can't just say that, Kongou- _san_!” cried Miss Fubuki. “What happened then... that's not your fault, that's some greedy politicians thinking they could make dirty money from foreigners! It... it has nothing to do with the fast battleship that's won so much renown and-”  
  
Miss Kongou shook her head. “Don't forget, Bucky, we're fleet girls. The circumstance of our construction does influence us to some degree,” she said. “Besides, I'm more worried about you... and what a scandal might do to you. You're such a bright, brave little destroyer; and...” Her voice was teary and distorted. “...and you can help the Admiral in so many ways I cannot.”  
  
Now arose in Kili's heart an extreme enmity that could only be extinguished by axes and many arrows and the spilling of blood. Should the men who had upset Miss Kongou be before him right there, not even Durin awakened and the law of his kin could have preserved them.  
  
“Kongou- _san_...”  
  
“Don't worry,” said Miss Kongou. “Like Haruna- _chan_ likes to say, it's going to be fine. It _is_ going to be fine, _dess_!”  
  
Then her other arm reached out, and swift as a gale and gentle as a breeze she swept Miss Fubuki into a tight embrace. Tears glittered in the moonlight, and at once Kili did not know to whom they belonged.  
  
Kili stood there, in the bush behind which he hid, speechless. That image would be burned into the back of his mind forever: the beautiful Kongou, so brave and so self-sacrificing, embracing her little sister in a manner so motherly and yet so... Kili couldn't find the word, but it was a sight too alluring for words, and set him ablaze and left him unable to move.  
  
When he finally came to, as if awakened from a great coma, the two women were no longer there, as if having melted into the night before his very eyes. Something overcame him, as were often the case with dwarves of great craftsmanship and greater love for beautiful things.  
  
Off he raced, no longer quiet but noisy like a rampaging elephant. He returned to the campsite of his kin, where the flame was flickering strong underneath the blazing stars above. Amidst the silence and the quiet snoring of his compatriots, he stole towards Ori's luggage like a true burglar. He dug into the younger dwarf's belongings, fished out his big journal and drawing-book, and tore off a double page, and tiptoed away into the night with only a pen and a torch in tow aside.  
  
There, behind a tree near the campsite he set himself down, planted the torch on his side, set up a smooth rock for a drawing table, and smoothed the note-paper on its face. Then his work began, his mind feverish with visions of the perfection he had beheld: The hair flowing in the evening breeze, the subtle glaze of moonlight upon the pearl-like silhouette, the soft embrace of love unsullen, and those tears like gems untarnished and untarnishable...  
  
He had had to restrain himself to the utmost not to transpose the image of himself into the place of the young Miss Fubuki. There was that part of him, base and ignoble, that was nagging at him about how it would have felt to be embraced by Miss Kongou, her tears soaking his shoulder, her warm cheek pressed against his...  
  
_No,_ he told himself. _That is not meant to be_.  
  
He buried it down. He buried it all down, down, down in the deepest part of a dwarf never laid bare to torch-light or sun-light.  
  
He gave himself to the vision of beauty and perfection of the craft extolled by Mahal himself.  
  
_This, however, is._  
  
Kili did not sleep that night, for the fire was strong in him hotter than any forges known to the dwarves. Ere long his work was done, for when a dwarf had set his mind on a craft he would for certain achieve perfection unless death or dismemberment should tear him from his work.  
  
He extinguished the torch beneath the whiting sky, and observed his work for one last time. It was not a perfect transcription of the moment, because nothing could have done justice to the beauty he had seen but for the hands of Mahal himself. Yet for a work crafted by a dwarf Kili would challenge any to do better, for there stood Miss Kongou in charcoal, lifelike and soulful, as if she could awaken and step out of the confines of pencil and paper any moment now.  
  
He looked deep into those eyes of hers that he had transcribed, and tears came to his eyes also. Never would he ever make such like again: such culmination of a craft came not easily to a dwarf, and tenfold so much for a craft so imbued with the desperate love and the jealous passion, both so unlike a dwarf and so central to _being_ a dwarf.  
  
_Diamond in the Brook_ , he named the painting, and laid a great many spells as he could on the envelope in which he neatly folded it, that would keep the package safe from interlopers and thieves in the night.  
  
Come the next day, he would forget everything, and give himself to the quest, as was expected by his people of an heir of Durin.  
  
And if he should survive the quest and the dragon and whatever was to then come, the painting, of simple charcoal on notepaper, should be preserved in crystal and gemstone and a frame of true-silver also; that all after-comers of his House would behold it and know that there existed a treasure more precious than the Arkenstone and more unattainable than all the mithril in the world, forevermore beyond the grasp of this Son of Durin.  
  
_So spake Kili, son of Thekk and Dis, daughter of Thrain, son of Thror. So shall it be._

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- In line with my previous statement of keeping to book canon unless film canon does something better without contradicting book canon: This Kili is Movie Kili, with Book Kili's hair and beard color, and a real beard!  
> \- If I ever start going on about “because it is real”, grab your nearest gun and hunt me down. Please.


	28. Part the Twenty-Eighth

**PART THE TWENTY-EIGHTH**   
  
**IN WHICH _YET ANOTHER_ WIZARD REARED HIS HEAD**

  
  
The red squirrel's tail went all fluffy beneath Nagato's combing hand.  
  
The Ambassador Ship's eyes alternated between the decoded message on her other hand and _oh so cute and fluffy_ on the other. She'd actually given it a name, “ _Asa-chan_ ”, after a district in her namesake province, dissolved a while ago. The sly animal had decided – perhaps independent of Elladan's machination, perhaps not – that sitting on Nagato's work-table and receiving headpats and tail-rubs was infinitely more comfortable than roaming on trees all day every day.  
  
In a sense, Nagato thought, she could have taken the squirrel as Elladan's gift, which, in good conscience, she _really shouldn't have_. Particularly given that rumor she'd received with horror the other day.  
  
To be fair, it came out of _Iku_ 's mouth and everyone in the base with half a brain would know not to put a lot of stock in her imagination. But still, that bit of gossip had gave her a blush that lasted a couple days; and the Admiral had taken it seriously enough to _require_ that Nagato took every precaution so that she'd never be in the same room alone with the poor guy.  
  
Naturally, the picked 'chaperon officer' was Haguro – and since the elf did have the habit of knocking at her doors without appointment, Haguro had taken to moving her table into Nagato's office. The heavy cruiser had been nothing but understanding and nice and accommodating – even whispered into her ears, _“I... I don't think... um... I don't think the fleet would have any problem... not if you and him-”_  
  
Suffice to say it would have been unbecoming of the former Secretary Ship to physically gag a heavy cruiser in any situation _but_ this. That was _exactly_ what Nagato had done.  
  
Only to immediately regret it. It had taken her two whole days before the poor heavy cruiser could look Nagato in the eyes again, and only very briefly and not without a “I... I'm so sorry!” as is her habit.  
  
Which brought her to today. She was sitting there, with Haguro at her side, browsing the latest communication from base and shaking her head once every so often.  
  
She was in the midst of another bout of head-shaking when she heard a series of hard knocks at the door. Hardly had she gathered herself to say “come in” when the door opened on its own: At the threshold stood Ikazuchi, bright and cheerful with an envelope she waved in the air.  
  
“Ah, Nagato _-san_! You've got mail! Ma-i-l!” she exclaimed in her childly sing-song voice; she darted to the table, and handed over the envelope with both hands.  
  
“Thanks, Ikazuchi- _chan_ ,” Nagato said. “Wait, where did this come from?”  
  
Ikazuchi pinched the bridge of her nose. “Eh?” she said. “Elrond- _san_ gave me! Said it came from a friend of his by pigeon, and said I should get it to you at once!”  
  
“Really,” said Nagato.  
  
She turned the envelope upside down and back again. It looked plain and unadorned, and its wax seal bore the image of an odd-looking tower made of four spires converging into its apex. No stamp, because of course. There was a name written on it, in the Common speech of Middle-earth that could be easily parsed into Japanese, rather than the elves' script, which... _couldn't_. Sometimes Nagato could not understand her own power and ability as a fleet girl, but whatever worked, worked.  
  
“ _Saruman the White_ ,” she read aloud. “ _to the Ambassador of the Naval District to Imladris_ ”.  
  
“Yup!” said Ikazuchi with a nod and a curious look in her eyes. “Weird name, right, Nagato-san? Whoever name their children _Monkey Ten Thousand_?”  
  
The pun caused Haguro to broke out into a soft chuckle. Nagato only lifted the corner of her lips. “Thank you, Ikazuchi- _chan_ ,” she said.  
  
“No probs, Nagato _-san_! Always depend on Ikazuchi for lightning-fast delivery!” She waved very quickly, and then dashed out through the doorway.  
  
The moment the destroyer vanished behind the door, Nagato's face frowned again. She had not yet opened the letter, only held it in her hand, and yet she could feel there was something particularly _odd_ with it, as if it had been tampered it in a way as to make her spirit tingle. She couldn't say for sure, but she would chip in a small bet that the letter had had some sort of _magic_ on it. _Now if only Ryuujou had been around... just when I could use an Onmyouji..._  
  
She stood up and walked to the middle of the room where there was still plentiful space. She raised her hand, closed her eyes and enjoyed the warmth of the glow that encased her: Her rigging had materialized, and at once filled up about half the room. _This shall do._  
  
Just as expected, the moment she opened the letter a wave of indescribable raw emotions washed over her. It did not much affect a fleet girl, much less one of the Big Seven in her full battle rigging. But to a lesser man – no, even a lesser ship – the wave of perceived magnanimity from the letter could have been overwhelming, like they had just witnessed true wisdom and benevolence wrapped into the form of pen and paper, beyond the wording itself, which went like this:  
  
_“Saruman the White,_  
  
_to the Ambassador of the Naval District to Imladris greetings,_  
  
  
_Let me begin, milady, by apologizing for the ill manner through which I have communicated with you. Though I would have loved to claim knowledge of you, perhaps at this point we are on the same page: I know as much about you as you do about me, which is to say little to none at all. Allow me this opportunity, then, to introduce myself: I am called Saruman the White; the White Council is in my right to preside over, Master Elrond is my long-time friend; and the Tower of Orthanc far to the South is my domain, vested into me by the collective wisdom of my Order and their allies._  
  
_I have heard of your Naval District, first by the whispering of the wind and then by swift Elves who carry messages on their winged feet. At first I had thought it hearsay, and you must pardon me for the assumption: your story would have been hard to believe, even if I had heard of it from the Wise themselves. Unfortunate as it has been, I have only now taken the effort to make real contact with you – and I hope you shall not begrudge an old man your pardon for this perceivable slight._  
  
_Since we are both likely very busy folks, you and I, let me be as candid and straightforward as I can be. My offer to you, as it happens, is simple: Though I have scant understanding as to why or how you and your people have come to our doorstep, I do understand you still need a_ lot _of help, and the need would only grow greater as time goes by._  
  
_You might desire foodstuff and other material; that I have aplenty._  
  
_You might desire allies and the strong hand of friendship; that I shall gladly extend._  
  
_You might desire wisdom and counsel in an uncertain time; that I possess also, greater and more profound than all else on Middle-earth._  
  
_All of that, and more, I can grant you with magnanimity, so long as I can be of service._  
  
_All I want in return, is an open discussion of sort, and a fair exchange of knowledge and wisdom and crafts, which, to my knowledge, you have plentiful also. One favour for another, as is the fair way for civilized peoples._  
  
_There are many reasons for you to consider my offer, and none not to. Without undermining my colleagues (despite their bad habits at times, such as gallivanting around silly folks and consuming too many mind-addling mushrooms, or their very great suspicion against certain matters that would have done them very, very good that no sound reason can allay), I might be able to help you in ways they cannot._  
  
_You do not need to answer me now – do take your time, for decisions made in haste are oft unwise and regrettable. In fact, I expect no letter or correspondence in response (and I would be quite alarmed if there would be any)._  
  
_Fortunately, it is coincidental that I would have cause to head over to the Last Homely House before this month ends. If it is at all possible, I would very much love to speak to you – in person – for the proper conduct of business to mutually beneficial ends._  
  
_I wish you a lovely month, no less lovely as I have been told of you._

  
_Respectfully yours,_   
  
**_Saruman the White,_   
**

**_Chief of the White Council_   
**

**_and Lord of the Orthanc_** ”

  
At once Nagato did not know what to think: With the whole business with Fubuki's fleet and now this? Massaging her temples was the only thing she could at once do; and part of her lamented not having Mutsu around. At times like this all she needed was to act tired, and Mutsu would be so willing to rub her head, or her shoulder, or prepare something hot for her to drink.  
  
“Are you alright, Nagato-san?” asked Haguro. She had left her chair now, and was hovering anxiously over Nagato like a mother over a sick child.  
  
_Not a replacement_.  
  
“I'm alright. I guess,” Nagato said. She stuck the letter out at her adjutant in all but name. “Haguro- _san_. If you would take a look at this-”  
  
Haguro took over the letter, and at once began trembling. “Nagato- _san_ ,” she said, and her anxiousness only grew more audible as she spoke. “Are- are we... um... do we have to... have to deal with-” She was almost breathless now. “- _another_ wizard?”  
  
Nagato nodded. _Too bloody soon, that's what it is._  
  
“I honestly can't think of meeting Gandalf without giving him a few choice words,” she said – honestly and without restraint.  
  
The whole _debacle_ with Fubuki and Kongou wasn't directly under her jurisdiction, but the mere fact that it _had happened_ had been giving her yet another headache on top of everything else, and about half of it came from the nature of what Gandalf had _possibly_ done. Just how much could they afford to trust wizards now?  
  
_No, you've dealt with worse. Surely you can manage, can't you?_  
  
Which begged another question. How should she respond?  
  
On one hand, the Admiral did give her full authority to conduct business as she thought would benefit the base and her comrades. On the other... it was hard enough to justify to herself that any business at all so conducted would indeed be to their best interest, much less in front of yet another committee if she happened to screw up. _Because_ ** _wizards_**.  
  
This was nerve-wracking.  
  
And as if on cue, she heard rapping on the door, three at a time. At once Asa- _chan_ began rubbing its nose on Nagato's palm. _There he goes again_ , the battleship thought.  
  
“Do come in,” she said.  
  
At those words, once again Elladan invited himself into the office. “Good morning, Lady Nagato,” he said, dipping his head lightly forward. He didn't carry his harp around today. _Perhaps he really only wanted to say hi..._  
  
Not that Haguro caught the nuance. At once her face grew red, and she retreated back to her seat, eyes on the floor so that her hair would cover her cheeks. On her way she almost crashed into the radio receiver propped against Nagato's table.  
  
Nagato folded her arms on the table and looked straight ahead.  
  
“Ah, Elladan- _san_? I can't say I'm not pleased to see you,” she said. She was not smiling, and her tone was professional, but so much softer than it normally was. “I've got something I'd like to ask, if you have the time-?”  
  
Nagato harrumphed deep inside. The number of levels she had gained in _sweet-talking_ those days had astonished herself more than anyone else.  
  
Elladan smiled. “If I can be of service, milady,” he said.  
  
“Thank you,” said Nagato. “I was wondering if you knew anything about _yet another_ a wizard called Saruman.” she leaned back against the headrest. “I've heard the name come up once or twice before, and he's just sent us a letter. What kind of a person is he, Elladan- _san_?”  
  
Something about him being a wizard and in a superior position to both Elrond and Gandalf told her it would have been silly _not_ to expect him to meddle in at one point or another.  
  
For a while Elladan's face stiffened.  
  
“Well, he _is_ a wizard, with all that it implies,” he said at last. “He alone of all his Order lords over a demesne of his own; the great tower of Orthanc a distance south of here. You may think of him as a more stubborn wizard than Gandalf, if you cross him at the wrong time; but altogether more erudite and more attuned with industry and the making of elegant and mighty objects of power than any sage among the Free People, save perhaps my grandmother. What did he ask of you?”  
  
“That he would have business here in Rivendell,” she said, “and he wishes to discuss matters with me in person then.”  
  
“Did he?” said Elladan with some bemusement. “It is true, though, he is supposed to meet with the rest of the White Council here in a week or two.”  
  
Now Haguro had recovered from her fluster – somewhat. She pulled out her notepad, looking all ready for some rapid-fire shorthand jotting-down. “Um...” she said. “Elladan- _sama_?What _is_ the White Council?”  
  
Elladan's brows creased. “Now that, milady, would require a long history lesson!” he said gleefully, and then whistled. Now Asa- _chan_ leaped off Nagato's table, and in two bounds landed solidly on Haguro's shoulder. There's no way the elf wasn't doing this on purpose.  
  
“But to keep a long lesson short, it is a gathering of the finest and greatest of lords of the Eldar, with the sole purpose of vanquishing the Shadow and the Enemy, and Saruman sits at its head,” Elladan said. “Among my kin his influence is therefore great, though not as great as he may have liked. Several hundred years before, my Father and many others have mooted that Gandalf rather than him be made chief of our Council; the mantle only passed on to Saruman because Gandalf refused the honour, and the White Wizard remains rather bitter of this unfortunate matter to this day.”  
  
Nagato shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Power struggle among the _good guys_. Just _great_.  
  
“I see,” she said, and changed the topic before her suspicion became more obvious. “I suppose this means we'll have quite the crowd gathering here soon?”  
  
Elladan grinned. “Yes, and not very often do we have all of the White Council so gathered in one place!” he said, and there was a suppressed sort of excitement bubbling beneath the surface. “Something very great is afoot, I can tell, and your Naval District is only a part of it.” He looked at her with a tinge of sheepishness. “I mean no condescension; it is only in many decades that Saruman, and Gandalf, and my Father and Grandmother the Lady of Lorien would meet in one place. It is not a time for merrymaking and making up for old time, alas, but a time for grim discussion of grimmer matters.”  
  
“I see,” said Nagato. “So we can expect to speak to Gandalf again...”  
  
“That is indeed his plan to my understanding, to come here and request assistance and refreshment from my Father for Thorin Oakenshield's company, while attending the Council.” said Elladan. “The only thing his plan has _not_ taken into consideration-” His voice trailed off. He looked at Nagato with deep concern dancing in his eyes. “-the problem with your subordinates and how much of a _hassle_ it has made at your home.”  
  
Nagato's eyes widened. That was supposed to be a secret, if the secure radio message was of any indication – _nowhere_ did the Admiral say Elladan was supposed to be in the in! At her side, Haguro, too, was staring at her – meekly as she always did, but with so much curiosity it seemed almost sinful not to answer her.  
  
“W-where did you learn of that?” Nagato said quickly.  
  
“I've spoken to quite a few of the wildlife, right here in Imladris,” he said, shaking his head. “Suffice to say, my brother has been a lot less discreet than he should have been, so distressed over the matter as he is.”  
  
Nagato's eyebrows jerked. “Wildlife?”  
  
“Not every animal,” he said, “But birds and the smaller, more delicate lives of the forest know us well and often carry news from afar for us where letters or other means of discussion would us. They are also notoriously gossipy unless bound by friendship or oath of loyalty. There is a reason news travel fast with the Eldar, and not entirely because of our feet or our songs.”  
  
At once everything dawned to Nagato at the same time: the implication was such that she couldn't breathe.  
  
A hundred scenarios wrote itself out within her, each more catastrophic than the last. If _wildlife_ were to be a valid channel for information leaks, then _nowhere_ was safe and disaster was only a matter of _time_ and _from whom_. Her intelligence crews were going _absolutely nuts_ and the cacophony of panicked _desu_ over every inch of her bridge made her vision blur. She clutched her temples and fell back into her seat, and only extraordinary willpower kept her from keeling over in pain and _horror_.  
  
"Lady Nagato?"  
  
She looked up at Elladan, her head still spinning. She might not be good with the whole emotion thing when it came to expressing herself, but she could tell concern when she heard it. He was keeping physical distance from her (and the table between them helped too), but he did sound quite anxious enough for her wellbeing - and she'd feel quite a bit touched if not for the whole thing about _impending doom_. _  
_  
And then a thought came to her, sudden and unbidden like a windfall from an extraordinarily lucky hand. And yet it made _so much sense_ \- because she was a ship and a military officer but also a woman on top of it.  
_  
Maybe..._  
  
“Excuse me, Elladan _-san_ ,” Nagato said quickly. She left her seat in a rush; in a whirl she ran all over the room and shut tight every single door, window and air-hole she could manage. She had an inkling that wasn't enough: to ensure absolute military secret she should wring the squirrel's neck.  
  
The fact that the thought even occurred to her at all made her sick. _Like_ hell _I'm going to do that_.  
  
After the last window had closed behind her, Nagato swung about. “I'll have to ask you for a very, very big favor, Elladan- _san_ ,” she said. “Can you please _please please_ tell Asa- _chan_ -” She thumbed at the squirrel. “-that _none_ of what we're going to talk here shall leave this room?” She made as fierce a stare as she could make – at Elladan, not at the squirrel, if only because she couldn't bear to do so. “For his own safety.”  
  
“Her,” corrected Elladan, “The squirrel is a _she,_ milady. And yes, I think that would be wise.” He made a beckoning gesture and whistled, and the squirrel at once leaped off Haguro's table, bounced along the ground and leaped on his hand. He whispered in the squirrel's ears, which flopped twice. “She agrees,” said Elladan.  
  
And yes, the squirrel was nodding her little head in a downright _heart-melting_ fashion. _Okay, enough of fluffy for now_ , thought Nagato, and tried to suppress the flush on her cheek.  
  
Now the air in the room was heating up; literally and figuratively. Nagato could almost hear Haguro's boiler-thrum. The squirrel was looking around the room in confusion. Her eyes and Elladan's met.  
  
Nagato took in a large gulp of air. “I need your help,” she said. “You're right. Two of my former subordinates are going to be in a _lot_ of trouble because of your good friend Gandalf, and... and I fear this isn't just going to stop with them.”  
  
Nagato had no idea she could have talked so quickly; the entire _mess_ with Fubuki's expedition flowed out of her like a stream. Had she not spoken so quickly, she might have blown a fuse.  
  
At the end of her small tirade, Elladan stood quiet and frozen, and so was Haguro. At long last the elf inhaled – heavily. “I see,” he said. “Does Gandalf know of this matter, by any chance?”  
  
“Not yet, not unless anyone of us here reveals to him,” said Nagato, now throwing her glance at the squirrel. “And that means _you_ too.” The squirrel went _meep_ and leaped off the table and made herself comfortable on Haguro's head.  
  
“That Gandalf's work could have caused so much trouble for doing what he has always done for two millennia,” said Elladan. “Never before has he been so humbled, or would be once he knows!”  
  
“Two things are important here,” said Nagato. “One, Fubuki has been camping out in Bree at the wizard's arrangement. I've done some maths and even in my world nobody in their right mind would say a two-week accommodation in a backwater inn is a significant enough expense to raise a stink; His Majesty willing, _I'd_ be tempted too, because that's pretty far on this side of that fine grey line between _courtesy_ and _bribery_. That _really_ shouldn't have mattered, if not for the issue of Gandalf suddenly knowing certain details of our internal comms that he frankly _isn't supposed to know_ unless someone spilled it out to him.” She sighed. “You can see why there are quite a few who're just connecting the dots and calling for Fubuki's head on a platter because of it.”  
  
Elladan's posture stiffens. “How can I help?”  
  
Nagato nodded. _Just the question I wanted you to ask._  
  
“I'd ask for someone,” she said, “anyone trustworthy enough, bird, bees, squirrels, whatever – that you can send out to Gandalf and tell him...” _Get his ass over to Yokosuka_ , was what Nagato wanted to shout. She held herself back just in time. “...tell him without his presence at our base to tell his share of the story to the people in charge of investigations, two innocent fleetgirls are going to _suffer_. Badly. Or all four of them, if the committee is feeling particularly merciless.”  
  
She exhaled loudly, and then looked him in the eyes. “And when that matter is sorted out,” she said breathlessly, “I'll - We'll need to do something to make sure that our - the Naval District's - sensitive information does not fall into the wrong hand-” _And we have a_ lot _of that stuff._ “-because of the carelessness of animals.”  
  
Long did Elladan stand in his place, pinching his cheek. “As to the second matter you said, milady,” he said cautiously. “At once I am at a loss what I can do to help; this is not something I am familiar with - though of course I would try, if I can.”  
  
Then he looked up, and nodded and smiled.  
  
“But as to the first matter,” he said. “I would rather make a counter-suggestion.”  


***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is particularly annoying to get Haguro's voice right. A terribly shy and withdrawn shrinking violet might be exceedingly cute to the target audience, but on paper that voice is incredibly jarring with all the ellipses.


	29. Part the Twenty-Ninth

 

**PART THE TWENTY-NINTH**  
  
**IN WHICH AN UNSEEN WAR WAS REVEALED AND A FAVOUR CALLED**

  
  
  
For a week now Landroval had been dreaming, though sleep he did not.  
  
He saw himself tethering, moving now nearer to one end and now nearer to the other, between Arda and the unknown beyond.  
  
He felt Master Elrond, bathed in the light of the Eldar, his power working over him, cool and soothing like water and wind.  
  
He heard many elven-songs, now melancholic and now heroic, as if echoing from the age of Myth whence the Host of the Valar made war upon the evils of Morgoth over Thangorodrim cold and fell.  
  
In those moments now lucid and now dreamlike, other things came to his mind, too. He thought, perhaps not quite consciously, of the little thing he'd rescued and protected that day, and of the stories she had told him along the way.  
  
He dreamt of another time, another place, perhaps another world altogether where no elves would ever pass on.  
  
Where the Air Mothers sailed the vast seas beyond seas, like eyries that float, where the birds of steel and iron would descend and rest ere their wings tired, their safety marked by a broken line of white upon a flat deck.  
  
Where islands were not empty and inhospitable places where mutineers were to be marooned for dead, but alive and bustling with many nests of their own for birds even larger than the Great Eagles themselves.  
  
Where the vast ocean, though beautiful and inspiring of desire as they had always been, were rife with cruel and fell things that raked its waters with fire and thunder.  
  
Where, beneath the blue waves, rested so many great hulls of steel that would shame even the greatest of Numenorean vessels; broken and punctured in body but wholesome in spirit, that they would return and once more fly to the aid of their lord and land...  
  
Then his mind would float again, to that night, and the flight that would have ended in disaster by the breadth of a feather. Ambushed by goblins! How terribly shameful, and yet it happened to the best of eagles. He could recall the searing pain of many punctures, and the burning poison in his vein. He could recall the cruel laughter of goblins, and their bloodlusted gurgles.  
  
He did not know what gave him the strength to go on – perhaps it was the desire to protect that little creature he had saved. Or perhaps it was the instinct of self-preservation. Or perhaps both. That was not important.  
  
What was important, was what he had heard next – and seen next.  
  
He had heard “ _Permission to land, granted!_ ” in a voice loud and clear.  
  
He had seen, on the river, a flat path was painted in a broken line of white.  
  
He had done what came to him, on instinct again almost.  
  
The landing had not been soft. It had not been painless. It had not been artful.  
  
But it had worked worked.  
  
“ _In the name of the First Line Battle and the Movement Combined Team... I am sorry.”_  
  
When it began, his eyes had closed. His dream since had been punctuated by raging thunderclaps and roaring flame, and the screams of goblins torn apart.  
  
But Landroval thought he had seen then the shape of a woman upon the water, in white shirt and red dress, bearing the shape of a vessel very majestic behind her...

 

***

  
When his eyes opened once more upon the world, the Eagle found himself on the green, warm grass of Master Elrond's valley. The sensation was like a very soft bed, homely like an eyrie well-kept and watered.  
  
He blinked. His wings were heavy and his feet stiff. The sunlight did not reach him: a very great tent-cloth had been stretched high over his head in a square, suspended from the highest bough of four great trees.  
  
But there was a great shadow upon him, that came not from the tent-cloth. He blinked, and thought he could not believe his eyes. Gwaihir, the Lord of the Eagles, his brother, had been perching there at his tent-site for all the while.  
  
Hardly had he opened his beak than his brother was upon him. “Landroval, Brother mine!” he cried, and his voice was both joyful and anxious. “A mere edge of a feather, and I would not have seen you again!” Then his great wings spread wide, and clasped over Landroval's body: warm yet stern as the embrace of the eagle-lord was meant to be.  
  
“How long have I slept, Brother?” Landroval asked, “For the sky has turned grey and my wings are heavy still; I cannot take to the wind now.”  
  
“For a fortnight and a week,” said Gwaihir, releasing his embrace. “Yet I have been with you, outside of your tent and watching over you, for but a short day and a night now.”  
  
At this Landroval made every attempt to stand straight and proud. His wing-tip wobbled, and the girdle of his shoulder felt as if many heavy rocks were tied to it. Still he straightened his back, and his legs, and his posture, and tried to bear himself bold and valiant as he was meant to be. But not for long, now he stumbled and quite nearly fell over again, had Gwaihir's wings not kept him.  
  
“Careful! You are weak still,” said Gwaihir. “You need not strain yourself, not for a fortnight or three!”  
  
“I must have much troubled you, Brother,” said Landroval.  
  
“Pray do not mention it! I would have waited for a month, or a year if needed be, and it still might not be enough” said Gwaihir. “For of what use is the title of Windlord if I could not protect my own brother? And yet, I dread even now to think, that the worst could have happened that night and I would have been asleep, blissfully unaware of your peril!”  
  
“I have been caught by surprise, Brother,” said Landroval ashamedly. “For I had much underestimated the crude goblins on the one side, and had a most delicate thing to protect on the other. I have been struck many dozen wounds-” Here he let himself fall prone, for his wings and feet were weary. “But pray tell me, what has come to pass while my wings were broken? For you reek of blood and the foulness of goblins and wargs that few have before brought into this Valley.”  
  
“That is a story of its own, Brother mine,” said Gwaihir. “After you had been lost and not come back to the Great Shelf as is your wont, I spent day and night searching for you everywhere all over our domain in the Misty Mountains, and have been driven nearly to despair – for I had been told you had left for what might have been a fool's errand alone days before. But then, thankfully, many a brave birds came by, whether sent by Lord Elrond or come of their free will I knew not. They told me you have survived, and lay with your wings broken in to be healed by his Power.” He raised his left wing. “I had much intended to descend upon Rivendell at once, if only to see your life was yet yours, but our chieftains then advised me not to, for the sky over the Misty Mountains must have grown dangerous, they reason, that an Eagle as mighty as you are had been taken down.”  
  
Now Gwaihir stood straight and proud. His wings were raised, and his throat-feathers ruffled. “That was when I decided we must make war upon the goblins, dear Brother, and that was indeed what we have since committed ourselves,” said Gwaihir. “Not merely for they had struck you, but for they had grown now numerous and overflowing from the mountain crevices beyond what we thought they could have. And we have taught them a lesson they shall not soon forget – or recover from.”  
  
“For a fortnight we scoured the Mountainside, and woe befell any goblins and their wargs that we could find. They had fought back this time, with greater courage and desperation than I would expect of their sort, and ere long several of our brothers were injured, by spears and darts and fell arrows, but their losses were all the greater,” He turned his great beak to the sky, and cawed in triumph. “Now the mountain passes are littered with the goblin slain, and those with their wit about them had retreated deep into whatever cave and tunnel whence they came. We have won! There is now little to fear of the darkness over the Misty Mountains, not, indeed, for a time!”  
  
Then his great voice fell low, and became gentle again. “Having so triumphed, my first thought was of you,” he said. “I flew down to Rivendell soon as the last foul goblin in sight was slain. And I wish that I could have shared your injuries, for it does truly pain me to take flight so freely while you are here, downed and broken.”  
  
“Misfortune befalls the best of us,” said Landroval. He steadied his feet upon the grass. “As does complacence, that has so nearly laid me low!”  
  
“You need not trouble yourself,” said Gwaihir. “Like I said, the goblins have been vanquished and crushed!”  
  
“I would not be so optimistic,” said Landroval. “Ere long, I fear, the goblins shall gather again, in greater force and number. For many circles of the seasons now have they dwelt beneath the earth, in their tunnels and those robbed from the dwarves. How much must they have multiplied then? We have not kept them in check for many lives of Men.”  
  
“Yet it is hardly our responsibility,” said Gwaihir, “Our domain is in the sky, not the ground and beneath the rocks.”  
  
“All the same I fear there shall soon be a time it will matter not if our domain is the open skies or the confined earth,” said Landroval. “Things are changing, Brother, and not so slowly over many lifetimes of birds and Men as before.”  
  
Now Gwaihir stood still, and slowly his neck craned up and fell back down again. “You might be right, my Brother. I have spoken to Master Elrond,” he said. “At first I thought it was him who had saved you from death and defacement; yet when I asked, it was not so. 'It was the Ship-daughters, _Ciryanetti_ we now name them for they are at the same time women and ships, who have saved your brother,' he said. 'Since you last flew these skies, they have claimed a portion of the Ettenmoor as their own, and possess great power of devastation, yet their purpose seems to me far from evil'. And yet his voice was grave, and do not tell me I have misread Master Elrond, so long as we have known him! As if he, too, does not know which way the new wind will blow!”  
  
Now their eyes met, and Landroval saw great anxiousness in his brother's eyes. “Tell me, Brother mine, if you know: how true is his tale, and where shall we stand in its wake? If you have indeed met with the Ship-daughters, do you see peace, or do you see war and strife?”  
  
“It is a very long tale, Brother,” Landroval said. “Longer, perhaps, than your triumphant tale!”  
  
And then he began his story: how he alone of all the Eagles had set out in search for the little creature; how he had found her and promised to take her to safety; how they had flew past the Misty Mountains only to be ambushed by an abnormally large party of goblins; and how, of course, the Air-Mother called Red Castle had saved him, and delivered death by fire and lightning to a great host of goblins and wargs.  
  
He could not reproduce the great enthusiasm and love for the open sea and still more open sky the adorable little thing had expressed, in part because of his dignity – she was an excitable sort of creature, after all, and he was a Prince among Eagles. But he did go into great length into the visions she had whispered to him, in that funny but sincere tone of hers: because like all who had beheld the Age of Myth, a wondrous tale was worth a fortune and then some more.  
  
“Would that I knew more, for it seems the Fate has conspired that I was hurt and delirious for the whole time,” he concluded. “I would much like to speak once more to the woman called Red Castle the Air-Mother among those so-called Ship-daughters, if only to thank her for her aid, and to thank the little helper of hers for the story-”  
  
Just then he heard a soft footstep in the distance. Elf-steps, light and virtually impossible to hear to most but the Wise and the Great Eagles. There stood before them now the great Master Elrond, standing tall and clad in blue, clasping his hand with a kindly smile upon his face.  
  
“Master Elrond, friend!” exclaimed Gwaihir. “How could we ever thank you-”  
  
“There is no need to thank me, my friend,” said Master Elrond. “How are you feeling, friend Landroval? It is quite regrettable, that I could not have healed you as quickly as would have been convenient. Many were the goblins' cut, and festering with filth and poisons also.”  
  
“I would have no word for you, my friend,” said Landroval, and dipped his weary neck as much as he could, “but my greatest gratitude. Alas, I have little to give you in return but my pledge of service to you and your kin-”  
  
Elrond only nodded, and waved his hand. “Much as I appreciate your goodwill, my friend, there shall be more opportunities for us to speak in earnest,” he said. “But this is more important at this moment: Tell me, my friend of old Landroval, if you have had the opportunity to speak to the Ship-daughters, as you have said, in gratitude or perhaps both, would you now deign do so?”  
  
He looked deep now into Gwaihir's eyes, and now into Landroval's. “For their representative among us does indeed wish to speak with you, friend Gwaihir.”  
  
“Do they really?” said Gwaihir, and his wings stiffened. “Is this Air-Mother truly here, taking refuge in the fair Rivendell of yours?”  
  
“Alas, it is not her, but one of her comrades,” said Elrond, “All the same you owe at least part of your gratitude to her; for it was her who had dragged you many miles back along the waterway to Rivendell!” He turned towards the very large tree in the distance. “Lady Nagato, if you wouldn't mind?”  
  
Out of the tree stepped the silhouette of a woman, clad in an indeed strange attire with a stranger sort of hair-band over her head, checking her flowing black hair.  
  
Landroval studied her: There was warlikeness in her eyes, unlike any elf-maid that Landroval had chanced to see, and she walked tall and proud beneath the sky in a manner not unlike the great heroes who had once been numerous ere Beleriand fell. There was, too, a ghost of a very great ship as to be a fortress in itself behind her. It was a sight most awe-inspiring for those who could behold it, and now suddenly the name _ship-daughter_ as the elves had named the woman and her like made all the more sense.  
  
Now the woman – the _ship-daughter_ , strode before Gwaihir and Landroval.  
  
“Name-ship of the Nagato-class Battleships, Nagato,” She bowed her head. “I am in your care.”  
  
“And I am Gwaihir, Lord of the Eagles who yet dwell in the Misty Mountains – and pray we dispense with the formalities!” said Gwaihir. “If Master Elrond had seen it fit to vouch for you and your aid given to my brother, then you are among friends!”  
  
Long did Landroval look her in the face. Her eyes were bright and betrayed no falsehood – but there was a kind of stiff anxiousness in her voice: which was understandable, he thought. The Great Eagles had rarely ever spoken to the race of Men, and even to elves their exchanges were quite infrequent. She was choosing her words, as he was choosing his.  
  
“I take it, then,” he said, “that you should speak on behalf of Red Castle the Air-Mother?”  
  
Her face softened good-humouredly. “Landroval- _san_ ,” she said. “Her name is pronounced _Akagi_. _Fleet_ _Carrier Akagi_. And yes, she is in quite good health; we fleet girls may not be good for pleasant conversations sometimes, but we _are_ built tough.” A smile came to her lips. “She had wished to see you and express her gratitude for saving her fairy, but she had her orders.”  
  
“Orders?” said Landroval. “With her title and might, I had thought her a Lady, ruling over her own domain, not answerable to the power of someone else!'  
  
“Indeed that is not the case, Landroval _-san”_ said Lady Nagato. “She and I both are members of the Combined Fleet stationed at Yokosuka, under the command of the Japanese Self-Defense Force.”  
  
“And where is she now?” asked Gwaihir.  
  
“She is now moored at our HQ, as I said,” said Nagato. “The Yokosuka Naval District. For what you have done for us, despite previous misunderstandings, we would bid you welcome to its airfield at any time.”  
  
“Well then!” said Gwaihir. “Then this is indeed a good meeting between us; yet all the same I wonder if that is all there is to your coming – to meet and to greet. Perhaps you would have something to ask of us, as is often the case when Men and Elves would approach our kin! But in that case, a favour beget a favour, and you have done us a very good turn as to be beyond mere thanks. So let me ask you: What do you seek from us?”  
  
“Gwaihir- _kakka_ ,” she said. “You are right. There is indeed one favor I would like ask of you. We'd be quite grateful if you could help us with one very sensitive matter.”  
  
“Please, do be at ease!” said Landroval. “It is _I_ who is in your debt, not quite the other way around! It is indeed not so much you are asking for a favour, but us repaying one! Let us know what we can do, and provided it is within our capability we shall see that you are granted what you need!”  
  
Lady Nagato now stood straight. “We need to locate one wizard Gandalf, who should be now traveling somewhere between Bree and Rivendell.” she said. “He should be accompanied by four fleet girls like us, and a small company of dwarves. Once we have found him, we would need to quickly transport them all to our Naval District, or if that would be inconvenient, then to what is called the Old Ford, where we would have transports waiting for them.” She bowed once more. “If you could help us with any step in the process, we would be in your debt.”  
  
“Gandalf?” Gwaihir's voice rose. “Not the wizard? What quarrel would you have with Gandalf that you would want to seize him, perhaps even against his will?”  
  
Lady Nagato did not look up. “There is a misunderstanding between him and my superiors that might do both sides a _lot_ of harm,” she said. “Now he wishes to come to Rivendell, but I think suspicion is something best cleared earlier than later. We would like for our superiors to speak to him, as soon as we can arrange for such an event. Gwaihir- _kakka_ , I have been informed that for this purpose I could find no better ally than with the Great Eagles.”  
  
“This is a favour I fear we cannot easily grant,” said Gwaihir, “for Gandalf is on quite friendly terms with my kin, and we shall not do him harm. Tell me the truth! Then we shall decide if this is something we can indulge you.”  
  
“I shall, as much as I can,” said Lady Nagato.  
  
And then she began her tale.  
  
It was not particularly an exciting, or happy one. Apparently, old Gandalf had lured some of Lady Nagato's subordinates with food and hospitality, and had then got them to reveal secrets they were under oath not to reveal.  
  
Having said everything, Lady Nagato bowed deeply once more. “We reserve our judgement as of yet whether his intentions were noble or ignoble,” she said. “But if he is indeed the trustworthy wizard as you make him out to be, Gwaihir _-kakka_ , he should gladly corroborate everything I have told you.”  
  
Now Gwaihir nodded his great neck. “So the rumours of many a gossipy birds do have a grain of truth in them!” said Gwaihir. “They have related the most outlandish things about Gandalf and four innocent girls who are somehow suffering under his power. Foolish are those who take seriously the mutterings of mocking-birds and nightingales, as my kin should say, for they never tire of making up tall tales and spreading them over all four corners of the earth!” He paused. “But if that is truly the case, then what would you want to do with him?”  
  
“We do not wish to be Gandalf's enemy or harm his quest; but only that he would to treat us with sincerity and without manipulation.” Lady Nagato said. “If he would be forthright with what he wants, we might even help him.”  
  
At this Gwaihir craned his neck, and looked about the opening. “Landroval, my Brother?” he asked.  
  
“It does sound very reasonable,” said Landroval, and meant it.  
  
“Very well, then perhaps this can be helped after all!” said Gwaihir. “Of all things that fly our friends are many and our subordinates even more numerous. It is decided then! Crow the summon! Beat the wings! Let all birds that dwell in the open sky this side of the Misty Mountain know, that Gwaihir the Windlord seeks an audience with Gandalf the Grey, wherever he might be!”

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- First Line Battle: Literal, word-by-word translation of 「一航戦」 (Ikkuusen) “1st CarDiv”.
> 
> \- Movement Combined Team: Literal, word-by-word translation of 「機動部隊」(Kidou Butai) “Mobile Task Force”.
> 
> \- Let's clear this up this question: just how big a favor can the Naval District now call from the eagles? Arguable, but here's some food for thought: in canon Gwaihir and his folk do a lot of things for Gandalf – in exchange for the healing of a mere arrow wound that honestly can't have hurt that much for a giant eagle calc-wise. Now you can argue that he does this and more because they are both servants of Manwe and as an Istari in a way Gandalf outranks Gwaihir, but it goes to show that the eagles do very much have the Finrod Felagund mindset of “save me once, and I'll give up my life to save you”.
> 
> \- (Here's a fun exercise: Whenever Nagato goes into Diplomatic Mode, imagine it's Azur Lane!Nagato talking. Her completely mismatched voice notwithstanding, AL!Nagato is pretty much the de-facto leader of her faction and fan-translation makes her out to talk in Elizabethan/Victorian English.)


	30. Part the Thirtieth

**PART THE THIRTIETH**   
  
**IN WHICH A BATTLESHIP WAS FERRIED ON WINGS**

  
  
  
Gandalf's voice echoed amidst the crackling of the log campfire.  
  
“Ladies, gentlemen, dwarves and, of course, our burglar. Do we have everyone here?”  
  
Kongou was standing in a semi-circle with the rest of the rag-tag bunch – Fubuki on one side and Mutsuki on the other; and she could do was rein in her desire to sock the bastard in the face.  
  
Having said all that she had said to Fubuki, Kongou had to admit she was _scared stiff_ and embarrassed as _hell._ Oh, and this thing was bigger, too: some six hundred and sixty six flavours of resentment towards the wizard.  
  
How could she not be? She'd be lying if the _ugly_ things that were all but spelled out by implication didn't make her boiler go on overdrive.  
  
But they'd have to scuttle her before she'd admit that much, though.  
  
Besides – she looked right and looked left – she needed to be calm.  
  
Fubuki had obviously _never_ been prepared to face this sort of disgrace that Kongou had been no stranger to. They might be an expeditionary fleet, but deep down they were _girls_ , too, and that meant at some levels far less stable and resilient, in heart and in mind, than their steel and aluminum rigging would imply.  
  
Yuudachi was fine enough; she apparently didn't think very much of the whole business. “It's, _poi_ , just another disciplinary meeting, right, _poi_?” she'd said; and now she was standing with her eyes blinking in a sort of excitement as the wizard prepared for his grand announcement. She'd be right, too: bad coming to worst they'd only give her a slap on the wrist because she hadn't technically done anything _wrong_.  
  
Kongou wished the same could apply to Mutsuki.  
  
To say the poor girl had been _distraught_ was an understatement. This was the first among the combined fleet to ever come across the bastard wizard and even came back with a glowing impression of him. From what Hiei had told her, when she'd lugged home that sack if it hadn't been _Kaga_ essentially shouting her down and calling her _stupid_ , Mutsuki could perhaps tried to argue with _everyone_ in Mamiya's lounge that day, that the whole thing was good and wholesome and Gandalf was the nicest old man she'd ever met save for the Admiral himself.  
  
And now Kongou couldn't look at her face without thinking _I'm gonna choke a bastard._ Well, she couldn't look at Mutsuki's face at all, more like. Now the destroyer was riding along, her eyes glued to the ground, as if the very bright sunshine of May would burn her skin just by looking at it. Neither had she spoken much – or at all – for days; with the exception of maybe a hushed whisper with Yuudachi.  
  
_Yeah, not a productive thing to ponder._ Kongou might be a little full of energy and a little full of herself and a little full of (literal) BURNING LOVE, but murdering an old bastard, however much of a bastard he might have been, was right out.  
  
Besides, the latest order from HQ had been left no room for alternative interpretation.  
  
_Follow the wizard until Rivendell. Present yourself before Nagato. Do not hinder anything the wizard does along the way no matter what._  
  
Which was why she loved the Admiral; perhaps in _that_ way, perhaps not – when she was not on a sugar high she'd admit she was quite confused herself as to _how_ exactly her feeling towards him could be called. But this was true: he was always such a considerate gentleman. It was infinitely less embarrassing to be torn a verbal new one by Nagato than to come before him first and admit “I fucked up.”  
  
_It doesn't matter if I fucked up. Gotta be strong for the team._  
  
Kongou twitched in her place, feeling like she'd missed something.  
  
It was strange, in a way, she thought she had been spied upon those last few days. Odd, really, had the feeling of being tailed continued for just one more day she would have turned around and hunted down whoever the stalker was – she wasn't very tolerant of the sort and now in this situation doubly so.  
  
And then all of a sudden the feeling vanished, as the stalker had had enough of her-  
  
_Wait, that sounded wrong. And depressing._  
  
Now the wizard, having harrumphed all he could and clapped his hands all he could, began to address the throng.  
  
“I have got a request of a sort to make,” he said, abnormally polite to dwarves and fleet girls alike. “Now that we've made camp here, on this very pleasant hill, let us all rest up and eat and drink and sing and smoke (if you are like me and can't do without smoke-rings)! Tomorrow...” His voice trailed off dramatically. “There shall be a guest of mine, and we would need him to be able to find us.”  
  
The first thing to come to Kongou's thought was, ' _oh deities East and West alike spare me, not another wizard?'_ Apparently the dwarves (and the burglar, who was rapidly proving to be the most tolerable among the bunch – if only because he hadn't _done_ anything but give Kongou a wide berth) thought the same. Soon questions were flying: Who was coming? Why were they coming? What was this visitor going to solve? And such like.  
  
“A friend, for a good purpose, and quite very much if luck is on our side!” said Gandalf with a wave of his hand. “And now be rested and be merry! I cannot tell much as is, but I daresay it would be good news you'd wake up to!”  
  
Kongou couldn't speak for the rest of the fleet, but the wizard's words only made her more, not less, anxious. For the whole night she was staring at the sky, eyes wide open and all crews equally alert. Judging from how much Fubuki was twisting and turning, (and mumbling “I am sorry, Akagi- _senpai_ ” when she wasn't moving) neither could she.  
  
Whatever happened, as was the case, came before the sun rose _._ It arrived over radio of all things  
  
“ _This is Battleship Nagato_. _Repeat, this is Battleship Nagato._ _Fubuki fleet, come in, over._ ”  
  
All four of them sprang up from their sandy bedsheets at once.  
  
“ _Y-yes, Nagato-san!_ ” shouted Fubuki in her twitchy voice over the radio. “ _We copy! W-what are our instructions_?”  
  
“ _By the Admiral's order, you are to be evacuated from the front immediately._ _Relief is en route to your current position. Time of arrival-_ ” There was a pause on the other end as wind whistled past the radio. “ _-approximately six hundred. Stand down, hold your fire, watch the skies, and make ready for extraction._ _Over_.”  
  
The sound over the radio was laced with heavy wind and what sounded like the tweeting of small birds. Was it a joke? Was it for real? Knowing Nagato, she probably wouldn't joke about something like this, which just made the business plain _weird_.  
  
“Um... Fubuki-chan?”  
  
“We do as she says,” said Fubuki. She pumped her fist. Her _other_ hand was trembling.  
  
They did as they were told. Luggage, check. Any remaining supplies, check. All fairies at the ready – she'd shook awake a pair of bridge crew still drowsy after a night as sleepless as she was - check.  
  
And sure enough, they did not have to wait long. Hardly had the first ray of sunlight shone from the East when Kongou heard the noise of many great wings flapping in the air. Her AA radar rapidly blipped: she looked up at the sky to see two dozen _very_ huge eagles appearing behind the canopy in a delta formation. The beating of their wings raised a small gale in itself: this was the part where _everyone_ in the fleet scrambled to hold their skirts down.  
  
Thankfully, not for very long.  
  
Soon enough the larges three eagles made their descent. They landed in the great opening, at once occupying a good chunk of space. The rest ascended, and began circling overhead like a sort of airborne honor-guard. Off from the larger eagle's back leaped – Kongou's eyes went wide – Nagato herself; while two very familiar yet way tinier figures clambered off the two eagles flanking the former.  
  
… _Isn't that the uniform of the Sixth Destroyer Division?_  
  
Kongou rubbed her eyes. No, she saw right. And even if she'd seen wrong, she couldn't quite _hear_ wrong.  
  
“Kongou-san! Fubuki-san! Mutsuki-chan! Yuudachi-chan!” exclaimed Ikazuchi, because who else could it have been? “DesDiv 6, Ikazuchi, at your service! Ready and reliable as we come!”  
  
Meanwhile Inazuma was stumbling off the back of the eagle carrying her. “Hawawa... That's dizzying... and scary... _nanodesu_...” and very nearly fell face-down had Nagato not grabbed her shoulder. Poor kid looked like she was going to hurl.  
  
Then from behind Kongou came the sound of leather boots upon grass. The wizard had woken up while the commotion was going on (or perhaps before that, and was just sitting there biding his time, she couldn't be so sure), and now was making his way towards the great eagle.  
  
“Gwaihir, my lord and friend!” he exclaimed. “It's been a while since I have last seen so many of your mighty lords of the sky in such number and spirit! Why, for want of an exact appointment I have been waiting for you all night, my friend. It's time like these that pipe-weed proves its worth as a traveler's best friend indeed!”  
  
“And the same goes out to you,” said the eagle. “You look hale enough for one who's been into stuffy caves and damp forests too much for his own good!” Now he looked keenly at the wizard. “But let us leave the pleasantries until later. I have come and asked for you, as a favor on behalf of one who has saved my brother's life. Lady Nagato, if you will?”  
  
His neck swayed back, and from that direction Nagato stepped before the wizard.  
  
“Nagato-class battleship, Lead ship, Nagato,” she bowed and said. “I don't believe we have met, Gandalf- _san_.”  
  
The wizard drew himself straight. He looked at her for an exceedingly long while before he actually began speaking at all.  
  
“Indeed we haven't; which I hope is not quite detriment to whatever cause for which you wish to see me,” said the wizard. “Because I am quite here, and Gandalf means me; and I do not think you have sent for me to exchange words of banter, have you?” His voice was now no longer warm – Kongou felt like gagging at the thought that his voice could _ever_ be taken as _warm_ – but rather shrouded in a screen of keen alertness.  
  
“You are right, we are not here to banter,” said Nagato. “We are here to ask for your cooperation.”  
  
Now Gandalf looked to the eagle.  
  
“Tell me, my good friend,” he said. “Is what she said true?”  
  
“Now, that is the same question I should like to ask you!” said the eagle. “Because Lady Nagato here had told us a particularly unfortunate misunderstanding, if I could put it that way, between you and her lord.”  
  
Nagato nodded. “I doubt I can put together a complete picture without your share of the story, Gandalf _-san_ ,” she said. “But on our end, this is what has happened-”  
  
And then Nagato went ahead and recited... well, the whole deal with Fubuki and Kongou's little problem.  
  
And it was torture. Pure and simple. It was kind of fine to mull over her tragically bad judgement. It was _not_ fine having Nagato reciting basically the lot of it in unflattering details in front of a large crowd. Kongou felt her cheek burning all the while, and only by chanting _'pleas scuttle me now please scuttle me now'_ repeatedly in silence could she keep a semblance of calmness.  
  
At long last, Nagato concluded her story, and Kongou drew a stiff, ragged breath.  
  
“Does she speak truly?” said the eagle.  
  
“Indeed, there is not a word of falsehood in that which she said,” said Gandalf. “Why, she has even got my intention down quite correctly: I have quite wished for some of your Naval District to join us on this Quest. And I've got good reasons too; quite a few of the merry little creature on your decks had shouted that much to one another! ' _Miss Diamond seems to like the idea_ ,' they said and I've heard, and quote-”  
  
“You _listened in on our fairies_?” exclaimed Mutsuki. Her clenched fist shook, and had Kongou not reined her back, she might as well have leaped at the wizard and punched the wind out of him. “I... I... I've _trusted_ you, Gandalf _-san_! I've... I've _argued_ you've got no ill intention when you gave me food!How could you have done _that_ to us?”  
  
The expression on Gandalf's face was best described as ' _like a destroyer barely dodging a 460mm shell_ '. Kongou could not summon any sympathy even if she tried.  
  
“Ah, well, as for that-” said the wizard. “Miss Kirishima's fairies were going about, now hollering this and now hollering that, over this thing they called _radio_ , and since they had made no attempt to keep their talks behind closed doors I had thought I was meant to hear what I heard.”  
  
His fingers fidgeted around his staff. “And I- well, I've thought the conclusion to be drawn is obvious. If there are those in your community who would not object to an adventure, then I should like to give them just that!” Now he straightened himself, as if suddenly more confident in his rhetoric, and looked straight at Nagato. “But to my defense, often even the mightiest of heroes would need a push or two, and an unexpected adventure could make greatness out of the humblest of folks-”  
  
“And that _is_ the problem,” said Nagato. “We are not any community. We are an army with a proper command structure with accountability in mind, though we are not connected to our country any more. You cannot draft whoever you want into an adventure without our superior's consent – which to my understanding you haven't obtained.”  
  
Nagato took a step forward and looked around the fleet.  
  
“Fubuki.” The poor girl dipped her head and shivered. “Kongou.” The fast battleship shuddered. Pure _shame_ flowed into her the moment their eyes met. _Shit. This feels worse than I thought it would_. “Mutsuki.” Complete, haunting silence. “And Yuudachi.” (“ _Poi~_?”)  
  
Then her stare came back to the wizard, hard and cold. “You've landed _all_ of them into trouble.”  
  
To Kongou's great amusement and _schadenfreude_ , Gandalf's flummox only grew.  
  
“This trouble... perhaps I have been told, through rumours by free and wild things beneath the sun,” he said. “All the same I would not say I have such no great power over them as has been claimed by those words of birds and beasts; I cannot compel them to do this or do that through any witchcraft other than my persuasion, reasons and counsel. Coercion is not my way. They could have walked away if they did not wish to-”  
  
Hot air rose to Kongou's windpipe.  
  
“Sorry to burst your bubble, old man, but that's just not how we took it.” said Kongou.  
  
All eyes were on her, some with astonishment, others with disapproval, others still with a bit of a fright, but so what? They might as well consign her to a _literally_ shitty place for a long, long time after this, so she might as well go all-out.  
  
“When Barnabas told us you've got everything arranged for us, I thought it was just a sort of courtesy – so we could sit there and do our work while waiting for you to come by,” she said. “So _I_ could sound you out and figure out how in the nine tarnations you managed to basically _guess_ what we were doing like a freaking Abyssal Decryption Princess if one of that sort exists.”  
  
Gandalf blinked at her in confusion. Kongou ignored him. “I could have made like a model fleet girl who'd make the Admiral so happy all the time, and at once inform base that _you are a suspicious old guy who might have compromised our security details_ , and they'd go absolutely _nuts._ We're the Japanese armed forces, and this crap has happened before. Know what happened then, old man? _People died_ , that's what. Intelligence is _not_ a joke, where we came from.”  
  
“My dear miss, but-”  
  
Kongou glared at him. _Nope, you aren't interrupting me_. “And I thought I'd give you a chance,” she said. “And you know why? Because I thought you're trustworthy enough – because that very nice fellow claiming to be of your order who saved two of our fairies' lives spoke of you like you were Amaterasu and Buddha rolled into one – that if I prod you with enough of a smile, you'd come out of that figurative closet and we can talk things over like elegant ladies and well-bred gentlemen.” Bile rose to her throat. “If I'd known doing so meant you'd to basically guilt-trip us into tagging along – because tell you what, we're _fleet girls_ and that means a sort of integrity; we don't take things without paying for them, and we've _already_ eaten and drank and slept on your tab.” She sighed. _By the heavens, this is tiring_. “Yeah, if I'd known, I'd rather roll up my sleeves and make like a washer-woman for cold tea and half-stale shepherd's pie, thank you very darned much!”  
  
Seeing Gandalf opening his mouth and no words coming out for a while was the most carthatic thing Kongou had seen since the last time she'd blown the hell out of a Wo-class, that was for sure.  
  
When he finally could speak again, his words... weren't exactly the pinnacle of persuasiveness or wisdom. “That... certainly was not my intention, I can assure you-” said Gandalf.  
  
“All the same, Gandalf- _san_ , it is a fact that you've known things that are our secret, that you are frankly not _meant_ to know,” said Nagato. “You've told me now that you've been listening on to our fairies, which does explain a great deal. And then to my knowledge you can also listen to the words of animals too, which explains the other part.” She swallowed what looked and sounded like a very bitter lump. “But my superiors do not know this, though they _do_ know you've arranged for the Fubuki fleet to lodge at your expense. What other explanation could they have come up with other than, you've paid our subordinates for sensitive information?”  
  
Gandalf's eyes widened under his bushy brows. “Again, I can assure you, I do not-” he began, and faltered again: Nagato was _glaring_ at him.  
  
“Let me repeat: we are an army with a proper command structure with accountability in mind,” said Nagato, and her voice rang with a kind of tranquil anger Kongou was not sure whether it was meant _solely_ for the wizard. “When something goes wrong, intentions do not matter quite as much as _the fact that something has gone wrong_.”  
  
“I-... well, I understand that much, old and foolish as I might perchance have become,” said Gandalf. “Though I would not say intentions are entirely unimportant: for I have not set out to do harm, I would likewise stand at the ready to offer any remedy if I can!”  
  
Nagato raised her brows. “Well said,” she said. “Then would you come with us back to the Naval District and provide your account of _everything_ involving the Fubuki fleet?”  
  
There was a dash of mild alarm on the wizard's face. “And what sort of testifying am I supposed to provide?”  
  
“There is going to be a hearing by a disciplinary committee examining what my subordinates-” Her eyes glossed over Kongou and the rest of the fleet. “-may have or have not done, and how severe their violations, if any, are. If they are found to have leaked information to you and received compensation in return, and like I said as of yet the committee has very little reason _not_ to believe this is indeed the case...”  
  
Her voice fell now: cold, still, but no longer quite as harsh. She let her hands fall to her side; and even bowed – lightly.  
  
“If you are as wise as you think you are, Gandalf- _san_ ,” she said, “I should not have to remind you what the very worst consequence could _possibly_ be for them – without your words and any evidence you may provide to the contrary.”  
  
Gandalf's eyes went blank. Kongou could almost _hear_ cogs and wheels going _click_ beneath that grey hat and grey hair. “Bless me,” he said finally. “Indeed, if such like would happen on my watch because of my doing...”  
  
“Then please do not hesitate,” said Nagato. “I've been briefed that you've been to our Naval District once. This shouldn't be much different – we shall still treat you like a guest, if indeed your intention is as good as you claim it is. It might not set right every misunderstanding between us all at once, but it is a start.”  
  
Now the great eagle reared his head. “It would be not quite right, my old friend, not to come and make your voice heard,” he said, and Kongou thought he now sounded far more like a wise judge at the Old Bailey – wig and everything – than a very large bird. “not, at any rate, for a servant of Manwe Sulimo to let the delivery of justice go astray if he can help it!” He stopped and trilled – for emphasis maybe. “You would not even have to walk, for I shall carry you – as a friend and as a favour to Lady Nagato and her brethren for saving my brother's life.”  
  
“And I shall not shirk such responsibility for the misdeed of mine, in ignorance though it has been made!” said Gandalf. “But know this, my old friend, that this would be my most uncomfortable flight yet! And not for fear of the consequences of my doing, in earnest and goodwill though it has been, but rather for the knowledge that I have wronged so greatly, in my ignorance!”  
  
Now he hunched down, and looked so reduced, like an old man with his staff again. He turned about, and his gaze fell upon Mutsuki.  
  
“Now, I do find this too little and too late, my dear Miss Mutsuki,” he said. “But if you would forgive an old wizard for his stubborn daftness-” His voice trailed off.  
  
And for good reason: the kind, soft-spoken, _darling_ Mutsuki, was saying _absolutely nothing_. In fact, her head only twitched in a way Kongou could not tell whether she was nodding or shaking. She wrung her hand, and stared at the ground, and remained silent.  
  
In fact it would have been a bit awkward for all involved, had _His Jerkness_ _Thorin Oakenshield not reared his head full of beard, braids and beads._  
  
“Must the wizard leave the Company? Surely this cannot be! The _Tharkun_ is meant to be our guide!” he said. “Nowhere in our agreement – by words of mouth though it might be – says this would happen!! ”  
  
So focused Kongou was on the current discussion, she failed to notice the point the dwarves began to wake up. Now they were gathering about, keeping their distance from the eagles and the wizard and the fleet: close enough to hear, far enough to perhaps run for their lives if something would go wrong.  
  
Now all eyes were on the dwarves, and Kongou could not help but both pity him and thank him for putting the pressure off Mutsuki – and herself.  
  
The first to speak in the confused staring contest, it turned out, was the great eagle. He sounded _way_ more amused than was possibly appropriate given the current topic of discussion.  
  
“Truly is that the case?” he said. “It is just as well, then, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, that I have gone all the trouble to muster as many of my brethren as I have, to this quite frankly very cramped and windless campsite of yours!”  
  
Thorin's face went a little white. An eagle _that_ large questioning you, Kongou would admit, would be quite daunting if you didn't have an array of well-fed AA guns tied to your back.  
  
“And who are you, o eagle, to know so well of me and my lineage?”  
  
“Who am I, indeed!” said the eagle. “Quite an expected question to come from old Thror's grandson! Your grandfather, and father after him, had left not at all a good impression upon my kin, at any rate far less than the greater souls of the line of Durin who dwelt once in Khazad-dum ere you were a dwarrowling! But as you've asked, so shall I answer: I am Gwaihir the Windlord, and the skies North of the Misty Mountain is my domain as it has always been, long ere Moria became the dreaded name of your greatest place! It has been long since my kin and yours were last well acquainted – though that is to no fault of your own, I admit.” He paused. “Or perhaps it is – has not the Dragon Fever so often been the doom of dwarves?”  
  
Thorin took a step back, and a 'hmph' escaped him.  
  
The eagle gave him no heed. “But that is not my cause for being here – for the chastisement of dwarrows is not in my heart or design,” he said. “I have come to facilitate a discussion – and does the Lady Nagato have a message for you!” He turned his head, and raised his wing a little, towards Nagato.  
  
And for all of this alpha-strike to the dwarf's self-esteem? Nagato actually bowed to him, and Kongou rolled her eyes. _Really, Nagato?_  
  
“Thorin- _kakka_ ,” she said, and Kongou rolled her eyes _again_. _Really, Nagato?_ “Allow me to convey to you an invitation from Admiral Tetsuna, Commander-in-Chief of the Yokosuka Naval District – independently of the business with the wizard. He wishes to entreat with you, not in your capacity as leader of this Company but as Crown-Prince of the Dwarves, pardon me if that is not your _exact_ title.” She coughed. “To discuss the possibility of-.” She coughed again. “-mutually beneficial collaboration.”  
  
The dwarf's brows turned up in a gesture best described as astonishment. Not an unpleasant astonishment, mind.  
  
“It is Thorin Oakenshield, King of Durin's Folk in the Blue Mountains,” he said, “and Prince Under the Mountain yet uncrowned!”  
  
His voice grew less quarrelsome and more kind, in the fashion of _rich_ and _important_ folks having their egos stroked just the right way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Nagamon alone with two of DesDiv6? Call the MPs!
> 
> \- Fanon: Since fairies are a ship's crew always at their beck and call and the first “people” they can consult if something goes wrong, listening on to a shipgirl's fairy, I suppose, would be the logical equivalent of sneaking into someone's room and reading their diary. There might not be a lot in it, but it's a massive breach of trust all the same (at least the way shipgirls may see it).
> 
> \- Gentlemen, Akagi's favor has lent itself to an unexpected consequence:
> 
> Theoretical Breakthrough – Secret Weapon
> 
> Tech: Airborne Battleship is now available  
> Tech: Airborne Superheavy Battleship is now available  
> Tech: Airborne Battlecruiser is now available  
> Tech: Airborne Fleet Carrier is now available  
> Tech: Airborne Carrier Air Group is now available  
> Tech: Airborne Naval Escort Group is now available  
> Mission Type: Naval Paradrop is now available  
> Mission Type: Naval Airborne Strategic Redeployment is now available
> 
> The real question is, does the naval district have the tech team to make it happen?


	31. Part the Thirty-First

**PART THE THIRTY-FIRST**   
  
**IN WHICH NARYA WAS LEFT UNUSED AND THE WONDERS OF PIPEWEED ADVERTISED**

  
  
  
The flight over the Trollshaws to Ettenmoors was, true to Gandalf's thoughts, both the most uncomfortable and the most abnormal flight he had ever been given by Gwaihir and his kin, though it last but until a little before elevensies.  
  
Gandalf's first impression of the Naval District was how vast it was. In fact it was like Isengard itself, imposing and angular, albeit with less black and more grey, and its boundaries were an unevenly-sided polygon extending from one point on a river bend, issuing over a distance four hundred yards in breadth, before bending back and ending past the bend.  
  
He saw Lady Nagato speaking to Gwaihir, providing instructions, presumably. And indeed it was, for before long the formation of eagles was well on the descent towards a long black strip marked with a series of broken white lines at the far side of the great fortress. On either side of the strip Gandalf saw many a great shelter, rectangular looking from top down and semi-circular looking from front to back, inside some of which several angular, steel-nosed metal birds were lying in respite. A single tower, much shorter and smaller than the great keeps wrought by Elendil's folks yet still tall enough to dwarf everything about it, stood at the side of the black strip.  
  
One after another, the eagles landed down the strip. The ground was hard, he'd heard a few complained, but at least it was even and the great openness about them was at the very least pleasing to the eagles who hated narrowness and a dearth of space almost as bad as they hated evil things.  
  
The moment the eagle he rode touched its feet on the ground, Gandalf saw in sight two women. One was Miss Jintsuu in orange and ponytail, looking altogether very grave and ireful. The other was a very elegant woman in a long skirt-pants, a white broad-sleeved shirt, wearing a black chestplate over the shirt; her mass of long black hair fluttering like a banner in the great wind.  
  
Now their merry (or not quite merry) group broke up. Lady Nagato ushered Miss Fubuki and her company (fleet?) to one side of the black-and-white-broken-line landing-ground; the two young Misses who traveled with her took the dwarven throng to another side. Gandalf was left in the middle with the two woman. And very soon thereafter, just one, for the woman wearing red pants and breastplate quickly stepped forward.  
  
“Excuse me.” She approached the column of eagles. “I was told that the great eagle Landroval might be among you,” she said. “I am Akagi, of the First Carrier Division, and-”  
  
At the mention of the name Gwaihir turned his neck to the side, and his eyes became livelier.  
  
“Akagi- Ah, you mean Red Castle,” said Gwaihir, obviously still not used to the pronunciation or the etymology. “So it is you, who saved my brother's life!.” There was much approval in his voice as he turned and stepped towards her on his huge feet. “It is unfortunate he could not be here to thank you properly; it would be a week, perhaps more, before he may again ride the open wind. No matter – Let me thank you in his stead-”  
  
Meanwhile, Miss Jintsuu was looking at Gandalf, and there was a subdued anger in her eyes.  
  
“Gandalf- _san_ ,” she said and bowed. “The Admiral asks to meet with you, sir.”  
  
And Gandalf would say 'subdued', because her tone was otherwise perfectly polite if only a little monotonous and dry. He quietly nodded his head. He was not unsurprised, to be sure: the last meeting with Miss Kirishima had given the impression that the man was trying to avoid meeting with him from the very beginning. But as weather and river could change, so could a man's attitude.  
  
“Please take me to him then.”  
  
Now Miss Jintsuu began to stride along the paved path – very quickly. They darted out of the black strip through a small door under a great fence of iron wire. They strode along a paved path with flowers and trees to the side, and many a decorated lamp-posts. They walked past a few rectangular blocks of building, full of everyday life. To Miss Jintsuu's credit, she did occasionally slow back and wait for Gandalf to catch up; for an otherwise ordinary-looking girl she was quite nimble and agile.  
  
She took him now to a large, four-storeyed building with two broad wings forming a narrow U-shape about a court upon which a flagpole was set. A banner with a red circle on white field was fluttering proudly in the breeze. She pushed open the great door of glass and wood, and held it open for the wizard.  
  
Then came great foyer and then a flight of wooden stairs – brown and plain and utilitarian yet not without a charm of its own. Their steps then came upon a long corridor with windows on one side and many wooden doors with little wooden name-boards on the others, in the fanciful script of these Japanese people.  
  
At long last Miss Jintsuu stopped in front of the most fanciful door near the end of the corridor.  
  
“The Admiral is already waiting for you, Gandalf- _san_ ,” she said, and then bowed, and then turned about and left, hastily as she had come.  
  
A small sort of dread came over Gandalf, quite a bit harder to tuck down the bottom of his stomach than it was to tuck his beard into his belt. But at long last Gandalf straightened his posture, and knocked on the door – with the back of his staff.  
  
“The door is open, sir.”  
  
Gandalf's staff-hand fell to his side. He'd come expecting a harsh and shrill cry, or at least a monotonous and uninviting one. This voice was neither: it was well-mannered and kindly (albeit stiff, the problem shared by many a Gondorian noblewomen in their court function), but sincere rather than forced.  
  
Still, the contrast was enough to throw Gandalf a little off his own game. Straightening his posture, he pushed down the door-lever and stepped through the threshold.  
  
He found himself in a sitting-room, small but cosy, carpeted but plain, most of its space occupied by an oval table. But there was the presence in the air of not one, but _two_ very large ships just like Lady Nagato. In the open, with Miss Kongou and Lady Nagato, the feeling was not too overwhelming, for the wilderness of Middle-earth had a way of making even the largest and most majestic of craft look small and diminished.  
  
But this was a small room, and the mere presence of such vessels, if only in spirit and not in form, was quite a hefty thing; and Gandalf began breathing faster.  
  
He looked at the table: There seated an old man in white uniform, matching the description provided by Elrond: old, grey, moustached and otherwise unremarkably built. But his eyes were exceptionally bright, and his brows markedly sharp. And next to him were two ship-daughters, projecting that utterly overwhelming presence.  
  
Gandalf began a largely habitual effort to listen, and all at once censured – and censored – himself. Force of habit was a powerful thing even for a very wise wizard. Not that his habitual attempt had done him any good, or harm at that. But for the stiffened coughs and sneezes of the women's attendance creatures about the room, (and a “Desu” - ' _Excuse me'_ here and there) there was nothing of note he could glean that the rest of the room could not.  
  
Now the old man in white uniform and his attendants stood up, and walked around the table towards the wizard, the attendants training behind. He extended his hand towards Gandalf.  
  
“Admiral Tetsuna,” he said. “Gandalf- _san_ , we finally meet. It's my honor.”  
  
“Oh, no, no, no, my dear sir, the pleasure's all mine,” said Gandalf with a certain sense of detachment, and shook his hand.  
  
Now Gandalf swayed his head from one side to the other, from the woman in blue-striped robe wearing her hair to her neck standing to the Admiral's right, to the grey-haired one on his left, that reminded the wizard more than a fair bit of Miss Kongou in all things except maybe temperament.  
  
“Mutsu, second ship of the Nagato-class,” said the former.  
  
“Haruna, fourth ship of the Kongou-class,” said the latter. “Haruna is in your care.” Gandalf swallowed – as quietly as he could. Assuming Elrond had been correct, that the ship-daughters of the same class were like siblings to one another, then this girl really _was_ Miss Kongou's sister. And that would immediately make the discussion several measures more... embarrassing to him.  
  
But the ship-daughters did not react overly harsh in any way. They smiled, and bowed lightly: the contrast between their demure gestures and the silence all about them was... well, not quite disturbing, but it would take some time to grow used to.  
  
Now the Admiral gestured Gandalf to sit down, and he did as he was signalled, while the Admiral and his team settled on their side of the oval table. Before the wizard could react, the Admiral stood up again, and bowed down very deeply.  
  
“Gandalf- _san_ ,” he said. “Allow me to apologize on behalf of my subordinates. All of this shouldn't have happened, and as commander of this Base, a good part of the responsibility is mine.”  
  
His ship-daughters did much the same, and at once the weight over the room became less; as if those very great and very dominating vessels had diminished and humbled themselves. That, Gandalf had nothing for but appreciation.  
  
Now Gandalf beheld the Admiral at an arm's length, and what he saw was neither hostility nor paranoia; only tiredness. His eyes were sunk, his wrinkles deep, his brows shaky. At once he resembled to Gandalf's eyes an orange squeezed completely dry; spent, exhausted and on the brink of collapse.  
  
“Pray be at ease, my good sir!” said Gandalf. “I accept your apology, and perhaps your explanations too, and-”  
  
He looked to the woman to his right – Haruna was her name, and the connection had come long to him that she was the _other_ ship-daughter whose support he had counted on from the eavesdropping-an-eavesdropper he had done. Deep shame for his own lack of wisdom filled him; he took his hat into his hand, and bowed down in a way mirroring their gesture.  
  
“And let me apologize myself, my dear sir, and to your men,” he said. “And... particularly to you, Miss Haruna. When I have set out to see my designs, I have forgotten my own advise – that not even the very wise can see all ends.” There was shame in doing harm out of presumptuousness. But there was no shame, even for the wisest and greatest of kings, of Elves or of Men or of the West itself, to admit such wrongdoing and ask for forgiveness.  
  
The woman's bow segued into a slight nod.  
  
“Haruna would forgive you, Gandalf _-san_ ,” she said, her hair forming a shroud over her eyes. “But Haruna... cannot speak for Kongou- _oneesan_.”  
  
Very simple wording, yet very impactful. Gandalf found himself short of a good response for a blink of an eye or two.  
  
“I see,” he said at last. “All the same, I daresay, that this has been a very great misunderstanding, but nothing a reasonable discussion might not clear up well enough!”  
  
Now the Admiral finally stood up straight, followed by his attendants.  
  
“My intention exactly, sir,” said the Admiral. “You have heard the story from my secretary, from my representative, and of course from the four fleet girls in question. I have, pardon my presumptuousness, assumed you might be interested in my share of of account the incident – as their superior.”  
  
Then both sides sat down, and Gandalf noted that tiredness notwithstanding the Admiral's posture was perfectly straight. There was no compromise in that regard: Gandalf had half a mind to draw his Ring and bestow upon this man a little more strength as was in Narya's power. In the end he decided against it: Much as he was a giver of hope, perhaps at some point the desire to do so would cause offense.  
  
“I would be quite pleased,” said Gandalf instead, and meant it.  
  
The Admiral's explanation wasn't much different from what Lady Nagato had said: they were an army with a very rigid command structure, the Admiral was neither its lord nor its king (and had no intention or desire to elevate himself to such positions), they had to maintain a certain sort of discipline by committee, and they had had more than a few valid reasons to take _internal security_ extremely seriously. It was, however, quite a bit more palatable of an argument to accept when it was said earnestly and not with fury – cold or hot.  
  
“When I told Nagato to ask you to make your presence,” the Admiral said, “it was not to do you inconvenience or disgrace. We are dreadfully under-learnt in how wizards like you would operate, and simply a report even from Nagato may not suffice to sway their opinion.”  
  
All the while, the two other women were jotting words down in their respective notepads. Occasionally, between a pause or a lull in words, they would look up at Gandalf, as if trying to read him in some way. Or perhaps, perhaps, it was curiosity at work. Lady Mutsu was smiling – like a child all too precocious who'd look at an adult and say 'I know what you're thinking' and actually be right. Miss Haruna, however, was just... looking, and Gandalf could not guess well enough if she was curious, upset, or both.  
  
At any rate, the both of them were now all but staring at him. It was his time to speak.  
  
And he would oblige. “I would say, then, you have nothing to worry, my good sir,” said Gandalf. “I am here, and as I have said in good faith before the eagles lent us their wings to your strong place, I am not blameless in this nasty disturbing affairs. It would indeed not sit well on my mind if I should do nothing and leave the Misses Fubuki and Kongou to their grim fate – particularly if they have done nothing like what... well, what has probably been insinuated of them!”  
  
The Admiral nodded, and now the strain on his face seemed to lessen, and the burden of age somewhat relieved. “And this too: Nagato has just submitted to me a... report,” he said. “She said Kongou had spoken some... very harsh and uncalled for things to you, sir.” He waited while Gandalf was setting his walking-staff at his side. “I ask that you forgive her, if you could find it in your heart to do so. For a Fast Battleship of her age, she is... wild. Spirited. Indefatigable. And...” He shook his head. “-so, so prone to making decisions in haste.” Miss Haruna, too, dipped her head again, wordlessly this time.  
  
At that Gandalf found himself recalling Belladonna Took as a faunt and then as a young hobbit lass: uncontrollably enthusiastic and strong-headed even for a Took, and particularly prone to run away on wild adventures with or without him prodding. She would get angry, she would stop talking to the good old wizard, she would outright turn him away and shout at him, yes, that and more happened too.  
  
And that was precisely why he'd sent her on so many merry adventures on both sides of the Brandywine. Because that was the kind of spirit that made heroes out of seemingly insignificant hobbits in a world seemingly too large, too chaotic, too sorrowful for their merry kind.  
  
The wizard found his voice now, more peaceful than before, and quite a lot more sympathetic.  
  
“It may help, my dear sir,” he said, “that I am not a stranger to her sort of temperament. It may help also that I cannot in good conscience be angry with her sort for very long, and that is if I am indeed so resentful at all!” He paused for a bit, and watched as the Admiral nodded. “Though I must ask, what _exactly_ would happen to Miss Kongou and Miss Fubuki now?”  
  
“Once it is decided that they have done no such... dishonorable thing as has been insinuated, which I hope should be the case unless you tell the committee an entirely different tale than that you've told Nagato,” the Admiral said, “they'd take a few hours to deliberate a suitable disciplinary measure. I can't tell what exactly it would be, but they could certainly expect a demotion and deprival of certain privileges for a time.”  
  
“I take it that means there is no chance I can expect either of them to help out the dwarves' quest?” It was a difficult question, certainly, and altogether not the wisest to ask, but if he should ask it sooner or later, Gandalf would rather it be earlier.  
  
“That depends on the ruling, like I said,” said the Admiral. His voice was surprisingly untouched by annoyance. “If I would find assistance to the dwarves advisable, and if the committee does not impose any crippling term on either Fubuki or Kongou, _and_ if the girls themselves would not object to helping you, then we may well arrange something.” He left this part unsaid, but Gandalf could understand well enough that of all three the last _if_ was the bigger one.  
  
“I can only hope that my words would sway your Committee,” said Gandalf. “Though I couldn't help but wonder, perhaps this unfortunate episode would not have happened if you had granted your blessing and your assistance to the dwarves from the very beginning. I was not lying, inasmuch as I do think in good faith, that you would profit very much from doing so – even if it may not be _you_ personally who would stand to gain from it, but your men and those under their protection.”  
  
The Admiral frowned. “That is truly another, more difficult matter to consider, and not because of profit or lack thereof to myself!” he said. “I would not hide our position from you, sir – you might already have guessed. We aren't in a very good shape logistics-wise, and we would have had a very dire crisis had Elrond _-san_ not helped us when he did.” He took a sip of plain water. “You could very well see why I would be quite reluctant to enter into any sort of binding pact that may lead us into a war that we are not ready to undertake. Not before I have gained enough insight as to who would be our friend and who would be our enemy.”  
  
“But for the designs of the Shadow, my dear sir,” said Gandalf, “allies and friends, like fortunes, are earnt and made, not created out of nothing. You will have no friend and no allies from whom to call for aid in times of need, not unless you cultivate them, in honour and good faith.”  
  
“That may be right,” said the Admiral, “but if you would let me speak as a man not unlearnt in war as in international matters of importance - There is little more disgraceful to an army, save defeat and capture or other criminally shameful conducts in war, than to have a friendly, foreign _head of state_ come to peril on its watch. That is one reason why I could not rush into your _adventuring_ business. The other, of course, is we are not aware of the political climes here. We could be backing the rightful heir to the throne just as we could be backing an impostor and triggering a civil war among dwarves... you can see the risk. I could not make an informed decision unless I have known all pertinent things. And given my responsibility it would be reckless and immoral of me to do otherwise.”  
  
Now Gandalf sat back, and began thinking. And he began nodding, because he could not find a good rebuttal – not because he was unwise, but the contrary; it was because he was a wise wizard (though not completely immune to hubris, he would gladly, though bitterly, admit) that he could not find a good rebuttal. Familiarity to Arda and how it work, ironically, would blind him to the perspective of someone not afforded his understanding of how their world worked.  
  
“That is quite right, and indeed not without wisdom!” he said at last. “But since you have now extended your invitation to Thorin Oakenshield-” He fixed his eyes upon the Admiral. “I suppose that your answer to my request on his behalf is yes?”  
  
The Admiral rubbed his hands. “That would depend on what he has to say,” he said cautiously. “And even if I would agree to help him as you asked, we would have to draw up a proper plan for his mission that would better guarantee his safety and the success of the mission. That means alternate routes, contingency plans and even allowances for retreat and regroup if bad comes to worse. After all, like I said, letting a friendly foreign head of state come to harm on our watch is completely unacceptable.”  
  
Gandalf nodded, and nodded once more. Again, that was not at all a bad idea. Much as Gandalf had little patience for the stubbornness of dwarves at times, should any peril befall the heir of Durin, the cause of the dwarves, and thus of the Free Peoples, would be considerably weakened.  
  
Then the Admiral straightened his posture while Gandalf was still thinking with hand at his chin. “And if, let me put it that way,” he said, “if we truly are to help you, I would find it hard to forgive myself if something would happen to _any_ of my fleet girls.”  
  
Gandalf clasped his hand, and leaned a little back on his chair. “I see you are quite attached to them, are you not?” he said.  
  
Two things at once happened. One, the two women both stared at the table, one after the other, and Gandalf could catch the slightest hint of blushes on their cheeks. And two, the Admiral's sunken eyes was alight like ember in the dark, gleaming and haunting as he looked straight at Gandalf.  
  
“How can I not be, Gandalf- _san_?” he said. “I've been with these girls through thick and thin – and let me remind you they are our country's navy given flesh and form. I've sent them off to war – a war I cannot fight in person to my great shame. I've received them back, every time, their clothes torn and their rigging broken on a good day; on fire and groaning in pain on worse ones. I've argued with my superiors-” The wizard furrowed his brows at this. “-for _just one more_ … just one more quick-repair package more times than I can count. I've made every battle plan with so much dread, because just one miscalculation could have any number of them sunk, alone and in excruciating pain. And on a few occasions – once in recent memory – I've seen exactly this happen.”  
  
The Admiral leaned back in his chair, and sighed. Now the flame in his eyes had faded, but more because of fatigue, Gandalf thought, than any lapse in his willpower.  
  
“Please pardon me; I must have grown quite sentimental. I would not show how I do feel, not often, because my responsibility and position demands nothing less,” the Admiral said, “but never think I would do anything less than my utmost to see them return home, safe and happy when I can still help it.”  
  
“You speak, my dear sir, as though you are a father, not a commander of men,” Gandalf remarked.  
  
“Maybe, sir,” said the Admiral. “No law exists, neither in our country nor here I should hope, that forbids the wedding of the two responsibilities.”  
  
Gandalf tipped his head in approval. “Indeed, and I would go so far as to say yours is the truer path of a leader of man!” he said. “Though I do suppose, it must be quite difficult-” His voice grew more upbeat. “-running this... colourful, so to speak, company, in the manner that you do.”  
  
There was a touch of amusement on the Admiral's face, and now he looked less like a lord – much less a king – and more like a father whose children had been up to some particularly troublesome (but clever) mischief.  
  
“You cannot imagine, Gandalf- _san_ ,” he said. “That's my only constant, in one world or another.”  
  
Refreshingly, that was the only time he saw anything of an emotional outburst from the two women. Particularly Lady Mutsu. She turned her head up and to the side in a spring, and she blinked, and she blushed, and the words rushed out of her more or less uncontrollably.  
  
“Ad-mi-ral!” she exclaimed. And then her blush grew brighter. She was now looking about the room – and so as not to add to her already hefty embarrassment Gandalf chose not to fix her with his stare also. “E-he-he... I'm sorry.” She coughed, and Gandalf thought he heard her attendance creatures banging very loudly against her hull. “I'll stay quiet now.”  
  
The Admiral's face was inscrutable – the corner of his lip just twitched, ever so slightly. But then he turned back over at the wizard, while his hand searched his jacket pocket. He produced a tiny paper box, red and white and smelled faintly like a snuffbox of raw pipeweed.  
  
“Oh, a good smoke or two helps immensely,” he said. He opened the paper box, and fished out a little roll of paper half as large as his finger; he turned the little object towards Gandalf. “Look, sir, I've grown too partial to these little beauties. More's the pity, I've got enough left for maybe a month.”  
  
“I cannot agree more with the sentiment!” said Gandalf, and produced his own pipe. “You might want to try some pipeweed some time; and make sure you get some of the one and only Old Toby's. It does wonder for the mind in need of answers. Do not accept any substitute!”  
  
A real smile now come to the Admiral's face. “Perhaps you're right,” he said. “I'll have to soon look into local alternatives.”  
  
Then he lit the paper roll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- As to what kind of equipment the base has: It's explicitly shown here that it does have a runway and maybe several fighters in the hangars (I'm leaving the actual model ambiguous until I can actually figure out what is the most likely fighters to be stationed here). 
> 
> \- This is a PSA on behalf of the WHO and the Red Cross: Do not be like Teitoku and Old Man Gandalf, smoking ain't cool. /joke


	32. Part the Thirty-Second

**PART THE THIRTY-SECOND**   
  
**IN WHICH A RESPECTABLE HOBBIT WAS DULY APPALLED BY THE ABUSE OF FOOD**

  
  
  
Bilbo Baggins would say “I did not ask for this” every time he saw something that was so utterly strange, queer, disquieting or just plain _disturbing_ , but then his mouth would tire faster than his feet and that would be so unbecoming of a gentle-hobbit. No, sir, he thought, I'm going to stay quiet!  
  
The only thing that kept him halfway calm was the presence of the two young women (girls?) leading the team. Childlike innocence and joy, as was often the case, had a way of persuading even the most startled souls out of their elements, that all would be fine.  
  
The dwarves did not wholly agree with his sentiment. They looked around (all of them), made observant comments about the shape and the size of the buildings and the smoothness of the stonework (Oin and Dwalin), made less appropriate comments about how a large chunk of the people they'd met were women and girls (Nori and Bofur), complained about food or lack thereof (Bombur and Gloin), or else mumbled in Khuzdul (Mostly Bifur, and Balin entertained him). As for Thorin, he kept his head straight and folded his arms, and mostly said nothing.  
  
At some point the two girls with brown and orange hair were joined by a blue-haired girl and then a white-haired one. That was the moment Bilbo knew for certain whatsoever those people were, they definitely _weren't_ elves. Knowing how much the dwarves disliked the elves (they did not say exactly why, but it might have been an old enmity of a sort), it was a blessing in disguise.  
  
Now the four girls' skipping steps took them through a courtyard with a hedge and many trees. Beyond it there was a large building with a sloping veranda tiled with wood near the walls of stone and wires. It was built above ground, not dug into the hills; the floor was raised above the ground and supported by a row of small pillars; and the whole place was exceedingly large too! Bilbo frowned, but at the same time he was not ungrateful: an ugly inn-house (by hobbit standard at any rate) was better than no inn-house at all, any day of the week!  
  
Now out from the shade of the veranda a woman emerged, clad in a pale pink robe with a very large belt and a terribly restricting skirt that went to her ankle. She had her long hair worn in a high ponytail, kept from the shade by a paper umbrella she leaned elegantly against her shoulder. He stood maybe to her waist.  
  
“Welcome!” she said with a bow. “Thorin- _kakka_ , am I right?”  
  
“That's me,” said Thorin, skipping his 'at your service' as had been the case in Bilbo's smial. “And this is my company!”  
  
“Ah, I see,” she said, and bowed again. “I'm Yamato, lead-ship of the Yamato-class – but for now it's my pleasure to be your hostess! My apologies if the place is not well-prepared enough; we're still in the middle of some... restructuring!”  
  
Now the four guide-girls had rallied to Lady Yamato's side, while she drew her pen and began jotting down notes, as Bilbo and the dwarves began to introduce themselves, politely as they could and with “at your service and yours” neatly appended.  
  
“So... um... let's see here-” she began counting. “-thirteen, fourteen-”  
  
“Bombur counts for two,” said Dori. “He eats twice as much, and takes about as much space on a bed too!”  
  
“That's, that's such an unelegant thing to say about your friend!” protested the blue-haired lass.  
  
“Not like he can out-eat _Akagi-san_ ,” said the white-haired girl with a shrug. “All _Khorosho_.”  
  
It was then that a tall, speedy silhouete dashed out from the building – so fast, indeed, she (because it was truly female, Bilbo saw) she almost crashed into Lady Yamato, which would have disastrously bowled her over.  
  
“Hieee~ Sorry!” she cried. “No time now, Yamato, got to hurry!”  
  
“Oh! Hiei- _san_?” Lady Yamato raised her palm. “Where are you going?”  
  
“Where else?” She was not smiling, but there was a sort of passionate haste on her face. “To the kitchen! Kongou- _oneesama_ is home!”  
  
Bilbo glanced across the row of his hosts and realized every single one of them had gone a shade or two paler.  
  
“Is the lass always like that?” said Bombur.  
  
“Eh...” Miss Yamato blinked and rubbed her forehead. The pale look on her face wasn't going away. “A-anyway, I think it would be good if you would _all_ stay away from the kitchen, or anywhere within a block or two until further notice! It would reflect very badly on us if _something_ is to happen-” She began waving both hands very quickly.  
  
Then, pretending like the whole confusing episode had never happened, she began guiding the throng of dwarves (and one hobbit) through the wood-tiled corridors and up several flights of stairs. She led them, three at a time, into a series of rooms with sliding doors of wood and paper and bunk-beds with neat curtains attached to each.  
  
Her smile never faded, not when Bombur very nearly bowled over a fragile-looking vase, not when Ori started asking if there would be any meat for dinner, and particularly not when Thorin gave her an absolute cold shrug. When they'd set down their luggage, she called them out to the front lobby, and began detailing the in-house regulations; her smile did not fade then either.  
  
“We don't have a very... um, a very high-class menu any more,” she said apologetically. “But you're very welcome to join us for mealtime! Oh, and we _do_ have a sort of curfew around here, so please return to your room by nine at the latest!” She clasped her hands on the handle of her umbrella, _which she was still hoisting indoors_. “I'd be very honored to answer any question you may have!”  
  
The Tookish side of Bilbo, hard to control as it had always been, was twitching at the back of his head. He raised his hands before the reasonable Baggins side could calm him down. “My dear Lady Yamato,” he said. “If it is not too much trouble, could you show me your kitchen? I _am_ quite a good cook, if I may say so myself, and it does look like Miss Hiei might need some help.”  
  
Now her smile, perpetual as it must have seemed, _vanished._  


***

  
Bilbo strode along the cobbled path behind the building (called the 'Battleship Dorm', he'd heard them say), the four young girls flanking him on either side. They were all trembling slightly, and anxiousness had a way to spread. Before long Bilbo was already asking himself _why am I even subjecting myself to this_?  
  
The answer, of course, was that he _had_ wanted to help in the way only a Hobbit could. He wasn't a good fighter, he wasn't quite good with a sword or an axe or a bow, and even his burglary could use a lot of work because frankly speaking that was not what he was born for. Cooking, however, was another matter altogether: He was no good at cutting up meat or butchering animals, certainly, but give him a bunch of spices and herbs and he could cook up a miracle or two fit for a Hero – or better, a sitting-room full of protesting hungry fauntlings. If he could use his expertise to help his hosts-  
  
And then they approached the shiny steel-plated door of the kitchen area.  
  
The smell wafting out from the gap made Bilbo at once regret ever extending his goodwill. Next to him, the four girls weren't doing quite well either, scrunching their noses, covering their mouths, their faces turning now white and now a little blue. Bilbo could try to describe the smell, but he was afraid if he'd tried, he might have knocked himself out in the process.  
  
“Y-you can still run, Baggins- _san_ , _nanodesu_...” said the little miss called Inazuma.  
  
But something came upon Bilbo: curiosity chiefest among him, the same kind of curiosity that would make a crowd unhelpfully gather around a tipped wagon or a burning house. He held his breath as best as he could, and entered the building as fast and quietly as his hairy feet could carry him.  
  
There at the stove stood Miss Hiei, in her skirt and frilly-sleeved shirt, gleefully stirring a certain... mixture in a very large cooking pot. A thin purple mist was emanating from the pot, and Bilbo's inside lurched. This would not be the first, or only time that poor old Bilbo Baggins would be so uncomfortable at the sight or smell of something, during this terribly perilous and un-hobbit-like quest. But it was terribly disquieting and insulting to good Hobbit sense that someone could _muck up_ cooking so abominably!  
  
This was the point of cooking: it was like fine alchemy, except instead of gold the desired outcome was laughter, joy and a full belly. Which meant the smallest of excess could lead to disaster, and this woman... this woman _dealt_ in excess of everything, just looking at the way she stirred the pot like she was beating eggs until foamy!.  
  
“Goodness gracious!” he cried despite his own usual politeness. “What in the name of all the good things on this green earth are you _doing_ , my dear miss?”  
  
“Eh?” Miss Hiei turned around, and her eyelids twitched. “Who are... oh wait, aren't you with the Admiral's guests?” She narrowed her eyes now. “What are you doing here? I thought-”  
  
“I asked Lady Yamato; why, you can ask the lasses waiting out there, they know I'm telling the truth,” Bilbo said, and thumbed at the doorway. “I had thought you might need some help with cooking, and-”  
  
“I don't need any help!” said Miss Hiei, sounding rightly crossed.  
  
“If you would say so,” said Bilbo. “I, well, I beg your pardon, but I had thought that... _steam_ , doesn't quite look very edible, to Hobbits and Big Folks and Elves alike!”  
  
Miss Hiei blinked. She looked at the pot with her doe-eyed, as if completely unaware of what monstrosity she had unleashed upon the world. “Hieee? B-but Kongou- _oneesame_ always eat my cooking!”  
  
Now Bilbo walked closer – and it did take all of his courage to do so. He carried a stool to the stove-side and leaped on it like a Hero on a white horse wielding a blade of sheer ice challenging the Lord of Darkness himself. The corner of his eyes caught the four girls staring at him in unadulated horror.  
  
The four girls were inching further and further towards the doorway.  
  
“Hawawa...”  
  
“Too scary to look...”  
  
“Is there anywhere more suitable for a proper lady we should be, right about now?”  
  
“Not _khorosho_. No. _Bedstvije_.”  
  
Bilbo Baggins steeled himself, and glanced at the content of the pot.  
  
He was at once thankful he had had nothing but easy-to-digest food for breakfast that day..  
  
“No, no, my dear miss, this is not going to do! This won't do at all!” he cried. “Look, I can't claim to _know_ Miss Kongou all that well, but let me just make an assumption that she likes fine eating just as much as any hobbit – during our journey she ate as well as any dwarf, let me remind you, and that means this kind of _slop_ -” He scrunched his nose at the purple-crimson abomination in the pot. “-is going to _wreck_ her.”  
  
Miss Hiei blinked again. And again. And again. And then stared at the pot. Her eyes now looked a bit misty, and her lips was mumbling nonsense. “But... but...”  
  
“Miss Hiei,” He drew a breath, his nose behind his palm, and looked up at the woman's face. “You said Miss Kongou is your sister, am I right? Do you want her to smile, or do you want her to keel over in a mess of vomit?”  
  
“O-of course I want Kongou- _oneesama_ to smile!”  
  
A strange sort of courage came over him: and at once Bilbo thought this was the sort of bravery that had let his great granduncle Bandobras Took stand up to a huge goblin and whack him good. He wiped his forehead with his palm, then rolled up both his sleeves.  
  
“Then, my dear lady, you _are_ going to listen to me and do _exactly what I tell you_ , at least until I leave this kitchen, that is.”  
  
That was a bit... well, impolite of wording. But desperate times, as was often the case, called for desperate measures.  


***

  
“Put down that salt, good gracious me! You _don't_ pour salt in bowlfuls!”  
  
“I said, my dear miss, one spoonful of sugar, not one _ladleful_.”  
  
“Yavanna preserves, you _don't_ cook onions without peeling it! There's a peeling-knife for that!”  
  
“No, no, no, no, this won't do at all, put that knife down, my dear miss! You don't use meat-cleavers for thyme!”  
  
“Alright, alright, repeat after me: Bigger does not always means better! And definitely not when it comes to fire!”  
  
“No eggs? Goodness me, what made you think _deer's blood_ is a suitable replacement?”  
  
Bilbo was keeping his eyes busy, his hands busy and his mouth even busier, while Miss Hiei was running about the kitchen, now doing this and now doing that – poorly. Any halfway competent chef would have dismissed her out of the door, because her clumsiness about cooking material and her extreme enthusiasm was a recipe for disaster if nothing else. The poor Bilbo Baggins could barely keep her making everything into a mess!  
  
But as was often the case for kindly old hobbits, as the stories often said, help would come from the unlikeliest of places. The four girls had now gathered around them, their horror and disgust now switched out for curiosity and excitement.. One after another, they began grabbing knives and chopping-boards and all the goodly panoplies of cooking. “Um... can we help, _nanodesu_?”  
  
“Yes, lots!” Bilbo said. “If this is going to be a real plate, we'll need some stock!” He clapped his hands, and surveyed the pile of chopped venison Miss Hiei had prepared. “And I've got just the right thing for you!”  
  
Then he passed to Miss Hiei the cooking-spoon, and jumped off the stool. “Keep it turning, my dear miss, keep it turning, but only...” He scrunched his nose in estimation. “One round, two at most, every twenty seconds!”  
  
“Copy that!” cried Miss Hiei, and Bilbo shuddered. She might have more energy than a smial full of fauntlings, but she was using it in all the wrong places!  
  
Then Bilbo came around the girls' side, now clapping his hands and now detailing instructions. “We're going to make venison meatballs!” he began, and they began also.  
  
In a short while, the workstation had become ordered – in a certain sense.  
  
Miss Akatsuki, nimble on her hands and keen of eyes, were picking herbs and carefully, carefully chopping garlic and thyme into a bowl.  
  
Miss Inazuma was handling the potatoes: sliced in halves and mashed down with almost disturbing keenness.  
  
Miss Ikazuchi was balling venison into cute little meatballs, whistling something about being fast, fast, _fast_ and so dependable.  
  
Miss Hibiki, finally, was keeping her eyes on the pan, and now and again tossed a handful of little meatballs into the sizzling oil.  
  
And Miss Hiei, too, was scurrying between the pot and the pan, now stirring the sauce and now fishing meatballs out of the pan onto the many plates Bilbo had laid up.  
  
Soon the kitchen was full of a very mouth-watering aroma, as should be the case with an actual kitchen, and Bilbo thought a song would help, and a song he did make up on the spot, and this was what part of it was like without the music:

  
  
_Six o'chefs in a kitchen met,  
Bubble, sizzle and bubble more,  
Many a-plate on a table set  
So welcoming, beyond the door!_  
  
_Six o'chefs o'er one banquet,_  
Turn and stir and ladle some!  
And the weary traveller shall get,  
At the table high, their welcome!

  
  
His singing did not receive much of a praise, as was often the case with Bilbo and his storytelling. But then the cooking was going well, and that mattered far more: The sauce in the pot was changing, and now it was an appealing milk-colored mixture. A few stalks of herbs added some green to it, now floating and now sinking beneath the surface. Then Miss Inazuma came by, and passed them the sliced tomatoes and boiled mutton on the other pot. They oh'ed and ah'ed as the milk-white soup turned into an appealing, creamy red.  
  
“Alright, ladies and gentle-” Bilbo hiccupped. “Just ladies then, it's time to put everything together so the whole is greater than the sum of its parts!”  
  
The rest was all a matter of formality: the remaining sliced tomatoes arranged on the side, the meatballs rearranged nicely, the sauce poured over in a mix of brown-yellow and creamy-red. Soon there was a dozen plates of meatballs swimming in sauce next to arranged tomatoes, and it was all Bilbo could do not to tuck in immediately.  
  
But now Miss Hiei was looking at the many plates and then at Bilbo and his helpers, biting her nail and shifting in her place.  
  
“Um...” she scratched her head bashfully. “I'm sure Kongou- _oneesama_ would like this... but...” She sighed. “But it's not my cooking...”  
  
“What are you talking about, my dear miss?” said Bilbo, raising his brows.  
  
“I mean... I didn't do much, did I?” Miss Hiei said. “It's... it's all thanks to you, and the little sisters from DesDiv6, and-”  
  
“Ah, that's where you might want to reconsider,” said Bilbo, and puffed his chest full of the smell of wholesome cooking. “You see, cooking is an art. It is a craft. It is an expression. And... it is a labour of love and dedication above all! Well, at least that is what my mother said when she was alive; you can't ask for a better mother, or a better chef, anywhere this side of the Brandywine!”  
  
“But-”  
  
“Miss Hiei, you've got the _love_ and _dedication_ down in spade, my dear miss,” he said. “I can't claim to have known Miss Kongou as much as I should like, but she's a considerate enough woman, I would gather, that she'd know how much effort you've put into this work with us!”  
  
“That's right, Hiei- _san_!” said Miss Ikazuchi. “You've done some great, dependable work here!”  
  
“I'm actually looking forward to munching, _nanodesu_!” said Miss Inazuma.  
  
“ _Khorosho, vkusno, lakomo,_ ” said Miss Hibiki. “ _Ya pravdomluvny, da_?”  
  
“An elephant lady can do no less!” said Miss Akatsuki.  
  
And there, again, Miss Hiei's eyes went misty. “ _Hieeee-_...”  
  
And Bilbo thought, he had done his share of good deeds for the day.


	33. Interlude the First

**INTERLUDE THE FIRST**  
  
**IN WHICH ENSUED LILIES AND NAVEL-GAZING**

  
  
  
Musashi yawned and looked out of the window. Yamato was fanning herself. Summer was coming, and the air in their room was humid and not at all comfortable.  
  
Neither, Musashi thought, was the business of tomorrow.  
  
“Hey, Yamato,” she said. “Been quiet all evening, eh? What's on your mind? Not feeling right sitting on a committee to accuse one of our own, aren't you?”  
  
Musashi had not participated much in discussions around the base, and she did not think anyone could fault her. She was a battleship of action, not of talk. Had she been in the room when tempers were heated with the missing fairy business, she'd be one more vote to the “shoot all the bastards down” party.  
  
And now they'd called her to sit on the committee deciding what to do with Kongou and Fubuki and the frankly odious charge against them. Well, she'd sit there, because that was her responsibility; but never think she took any joy in it.  
  
Yamato looked at her like she was seeing through her, confusion and anger and all. “It can't be helped, can it?” she said.  
  
She glanced through the preparatory documents again, and yawned with her mouth opened even wider. This was not what she was good for. “Oh yeah, and what's the deal with splitting the committee into halves?” she said. “Now I ain't saying I've been to much of the sort – is this a protocol I don't know or something?”  
  
“Ah, that,” said Yamato. “Just a precaution, Musashi- _chan_. Just for the occasion. One half would watch the hearing remotely through video conference; the other half would stay in the room with you and I and Mutsu- _san_ and Haruna- _san_ , just in case...”  
  
_Oh yeah, that._ Musashi shook her head.  
  
“Just in case the dratted wizard pulls something?”  
  
“Musashi- _chan_ , you can't fault them for being a bit paranoid,” said Yamato with a small giggle. “When Nagato- _san_ delivered her report, the commissioned officers were scared stiff. Why wouldn't they? Having your mind meddled with is... Yamato would think it's _terrifying_.”  
  
“Funny, huh?” Musashi said. “The Admiral's been with us long enough to marry several of us several times over, you'd think he's pretty much immune to any hypnosis or mind-screwery now.”  
  
Yamato paused. “Are you jealous, Musashi- _chan_?” she said, and there her cheeks turned just a mite rosier.  
  
Musashi shrugged one shoulder. “Jealous? Nah,” she said. “He makes for a darn fine partner, but it isn't like he hasn't made it clear he doesn't think of us _that_ way. I'm not Kongou.” She placed the folder at the side of the low table, and slumped down on its surface. “Anyway, you think they'll let us chime in?”  
  
“Mmm, not likely,” said Yamato. “Do you have anything specifically on your mind?”  
  
“Just thought if I'd get a disciplinary hearing against me if I'm to crash the party calling for a dragon-hunt open-season,” she said. “Haven't had a good fight in a while, and no, wrestling a bear doesn't count.”  
  
Because drat it, she wasn't used to this. Pounding Abyssals to the ground with heavy naval guns was so much more fun than beating wildlife with her bare hands like a survivalist on a reality TV show.  
  
Yamato didn't answer; she only smiled.  
  
“I know,” she said. She glanced at the clock at the side of the room. “I'm going to sleep,” she said. “Good night, Musashi- _chan._ It will be a... heavy day tomorrow, no matter what happens.” Then she bowed – again, so elegantly, in pajamas though she might be – and then climbed up the bunk bed.  
  
“H-hey, don't leave me hanging, Yamato!”  
  
What could Musashi possibly do, but climb into her bunk herself?  
  
Not that sleep came easy to her – or at all. She was twisting and turning under the blanket; There was that strange feeling of being tired and sleepy, but not _quite_ tired enough to douse the anxiety within her. _Because I'd be damned if I ever get used to this bureaucratic kerfuffle._  
  
In which case, she thought, there was just one thing to do.  
  
“Hey, Yamato?” she called. “You asleep yet?”  
  
“Mmm?”  
  
“Wanna come down here with me?”  
  
There was a pause – and then an oh-so-Yamato-like giggle. “Sure,” she said.  
  
Musashi closed her eyes; she felt first a small shift of the bunk; then a weight settling down on the futon next to her.  
  
Yamato's hair was soft and fragrant, as it always was.  
  
_That's more like it_.

 

 

***

  
Gandalf was sitting on a second-floor long balcony, blowing smoke-rings and watching the moon and stars when his ear twitched. Elf-steps, virtually undetectable but by those who knew them well.  
  
“Mithrandir. I was told I could find you here.”  
  
Gandalf turned about: A tall and bright elf in blue was standing at the end of the corridor, his soft sole leaving little disturbance upon the wooden flooring.  
  
“Ah, good evening!” said Gandalf. He glanced at the elf's face – now moonlight shone upon him and revealed both familiarity and anxiousness. “It's been a while, Elrohir my friend.”  
  
“It is I,” said Elrohir – because it truly was him. “When I heard you had come, my thought was to find you, and to ask for counsel freely given; and had my other responsibilities not held me hostage I should have done so before the sun set and the stars rose!”  
  
“I could perhaps say the same,” said Gandalf. “I would have sought you out; alas, this naval district is too large and too maze-like, and given what I have to do tomorrow I supposed going exploring would be... ill-advised.”  
  
“And you would not have found me that way, for we'd be lost looking for each other,” said Elrohir. He sat down next to Gandalf, on a chair at the corridor; his voice fell, and so did his head. “I have erred terribly in some ways, Mithrandir, and I thought I should tell you.”  
  
“And so have I, and in the way I erred the consequence might be greater than yours,” said Gandalf. “We are all forced to adapt, too fast, too unpreparedly... and like the blind wandering in the dark, to fall into a ditch or crash into a tree is only a matter of sooner or later.”  
  
Elrohir rubbed his hands, and stared deep into his palms.  
  
“I would offer no excuse for myself, but a confession of my fears,” he said. “Everything is moving fast, faster than I am comfortable with. Much too fast. I make no pretension that I can be so brave in the face of such...”  
  
“No one is free from fear, and nobody should be save the One Himself, for not even the very wise would know all ends.” said Gandalf. “And I, well, much as I do fear something very grave is coming, I believe all that we can decide is what to do with the time given to us.”  
  
“Change! Change!” said Elrohir. “Yes, that is what I fear above all. Changes shall come, as we have accepted and surrendered ourselves to its vagaries; and the Eldar shall diminish and sail to the West where our heart is and our _fea_ shall rest.” Now his face was grim, and his forehead crinkled. “But this is not what I expected. This is not what _Ada_ could have expected.”  
  
“Does the ship-daughters still bother you so?”  
  
“It is not _what they are_ that bother me,” said Elrohir, “but rather _what they would bring_. I have spoken much to their folk, though not as much as I should have liked. They are... amiable, and in a way more like the Eldar than I should like to admit, in spirit and in craft as in the tendency towards the beautiful and fair. But...”  
  
“I need not say overly much; their craft is strange and would usher in changes we are not comfortable with. Not prepared for. And not just the Eldar, but the Aftercomers who have known little of their arts of light, fire and steel.” Elrohir's voice rose, in fatigue, in frustration. “What, then, is the One's design? How shall we conduct ourselves now, in a world that is ours yet changing so quickly as to make us strangers under our own roofs?”  
  
“For the Eldar there is always the choice to leave,” said Gandalf. “Look, look to the West, to Mithlond! Your kin are already departing for Aman, my friend Elrohir. Why would you stay when you can leave the strife and sorrows of Middle-earth for the Aftercomers? Out of responsibility? Duty? Or the desire for preservation, like the White Lady holds in her heart also?”  
  
“All of the above,” Elrohir admitted. “I, for one, feel that our time in Middle-earth is not yet to an end, though it is not for the greed for its beauty that I stay, but because I am needed. You could ask _Ada_ , or Elladan, and receive much the same answer.”  
  
“And it is a thoroughly worthwhile cause to stay.” Gandalf imbibed another mouthful of pipeweed smoke, and blew an enormous smoke-ring. “And... I daresay,” he said, “from the rumours of the little ones and the tongues of Men and a few Elves alike, your brother may have another reason why he would want to tarry in Middle-earth for another while.”  
  
“You speak of that rumour which I loathe and wish it would go away,” said Elrohir, his voice completely unamused. “Surely you know the Eldar well enough, Mithrandir, to know that we take such... matters very seriously.”  
  
“My friend, I should ill need a lecture in that regard, you of all folks should know how close I have been to your kin. All I say, is would you not let it bring you hope?” said Gandalf. “If the rumour is indeed false, then all is well and good. But in the better and more fortunate case should it be indeed true, would you not think to draw hope from it? Were Beren and Luthien not the bringers of hope in their own way, though they have long left the world for whatever fate beyond Arda? Or, indeed, your great-grandparents also, Tuor and Elwing who now dwell in Aman?”  
  
Long did Elrohir sit in silence. He raised his head, then let it dip again; as if every time he had come up with a rebuttal, he would then fail to deliver it.  
  
“You are giving Lady Nagato too much credit,” he said at last. “If the rumours were any truer than hearsay, then she would be asking too great a thing from _Ada_ , from Arwen and from myself that we shall not grant but in very great sorrow..”  
  
“If anything, I say I've given her too _little_ of the kind,” said Gandalf. “And those who fear great losses would stand only to lose more and greater things.”  
  
He blew another smoke-ring, and Elrohir spoke no more.

 

 

***

  
Fubuki woke up early. Or rather, she could not sleep at all and was only closing her eyes until uneasiness caused her to snap them open.  
  
She looked out of the windows into the sunrise above the hills over the pier, and recalled those early days jogging along the water's edge.  
  
The Special-type Destroyer, newcomer to the Naval District.  
  
The clumsy fleet girl who could not keep balance standing, much less fighting.  
  
The proven fleet girl who had not only stood on her own feet, but proven herself in a real scuffle.  
  
The flagship of a brand-new fleet, put there by her own ability.  
  
The unexpected hero of the MI-campaign, and then the long-expected hero of the Ironbottom Sound campaign.  
  
And now, the flagship to be put under a hearing for... for...  
  
Fubuki shook her head. No, no, no, not the time or place to think negatively. Already her other half was stirring...  
  
“ **Is this all right?** ” _she_ said. _Lycoris_ said. “ **Is this truly all right?** ”  
  
“Lycoris...” Fubuki clutched her chest. She sat down near the pier; her vision blurred. It felt half like she was still standing in the living, waking world, and half like that day again; breathing was hard, as if there was sea-water all about her. And not the cool, salty kind, that felt so natural under her feet, but the bubbling, cold blackness of the great depths; sorrowful and despaired.  
  
“ **Are you not angry? Resentful? Enraged? Are you not betrayed? Are you not unfairly treated? Have you not already exhausted all available possibilities? Why, then, does this happen to you?** ”  
  
“I've... I've simply done a poor job,” Fubuki shook her head. “And it's fine, see?  
  
_Except it isn't fine_. _It isn't fine at all._  
  
Lycoris, apparently, agreed with her thoughts – not her words. “ **Fine? Pshaw! You've been set up. You've been deceived. You've been dealt a poor, poor hand by your so-called _friends_. Shouldn't you do something about it?**”  
  
Fubuki felt strangled. “And what **should** I **do**?”  
  
_That's right_ , that was a question she had been trying to ask herself, and never quite felt it right to answer. Lycoris wasn't wrong. She was simply in a position where she was so poorly equipped, poorly trained, poorly prepared for, that it felt almost like she had been set up to fail.  
  
“ **Make your anger known. Nothing else need be said. You have a right to tap into it. Why not? You've been mistreated. Abandoned. Blamed. Framed. And now thrown to the wolf-pack. And how? You tell me. Setting things on fire is a good start. Or... anything you have the creativity for...** ”  
  
The more her alternative self spoke, the more anger and resentment bubbled within Fubuki. She stopped in her place; sunlight washed over her, bringing with it no warmth, only shame – and with it such hatred. Such rage. Such... fury. “ **You... you are right. Maybe I should-** ”  
  
But the flash of red quenched the moment it rose to the surface. A certain... train of thought came to the surface, and it was warm and soft rather than cold and hard.  
  
“ **Lycoris**... you **_do_** care **about me** , don't you?”  
  
The reaction she got was both unexpected and entirely within the realm of possibility: a hollow, hateful voice... that took a turn for the bashful.  
  
“ **Wha-what are you talking about?** ”  
  
The echoes of red faded, bit by bit, from Fubuki's systems. She clutched her chest still, but the sunlight had grown warm and less accusing, and far more bearable now. “ **I said** , you do care about me, don't you?” she said.  
  
“ **D-don't be daft! I... only... I just want you to grasp... Aaarrrrgh, you stupid, stupid fleet girl!** ”  
  
Deny as she wanted, the damage had already been done. It was a strange sort of relief, as if your own archnemesis - no, more like your lost, angry, hateful twin sister would turn out to be the validation of your existence: they existed because you existed, and vice versa. It was a kind of bond that was both particularly unhealthy and patently antagonistic, but... oddly helpful when all possibilities would be exhausted. The words that would be most appropriate, then, came to Fubuki without her realizing it.  
  
“Would you stay with me, Lycoris?”  
  
Lycoris' voice grew both more, and less, enraged at the same time. “ **... Why the _hell_ would I not? We are now one.**”  
  
“Then that's all I need,” said Fubuki. “To have _you_ along, through thick and thin; it wouldn't be so bad with two rather than one, would it?”  
  
“ **You are... Funny. Frustrating. Foolish. But funny. You know what... keep thinking that way. Not like I can ever leave you, and it is _all your fault_. I... I _hate_ you.**”  
  
“Is it?” said Fubuki. “Well, who's blaming whom now?”  
  
“ **... I hate, hate, _hate_ you.**”  
  
This was the part where, if Lycoris had been physical, they'd give each other headpats. Or, well, that was what Fubuki thought, anyway.  
  
Because a headpat could cure terminal diseases and restore world peace if given by the right person.

 

 

***

  
It was a bad time to be Mutsuki.  
  
For the whole night she had been sitting by the moss-coated anchor monument. It was probably a bad idea, for the next day she was supposed to be on trial – no way to sugarcoat that; and though she would _probably_ come out fine...  
  
The feeling of being _betrayed_ and vouching for the wrong person and causing – indirectly or otherwise – everything to blow up in her friends' face... and if it would truly come to a bad end for Fubuki and for Kongou- _san_ … how could she ever live with herself?  
  
Mutsuki breathed softly, and looked to the East. The sun was rising again.  
  
_What should I do, Kisaragi?_  
  
But then the soft tweeting of a small bird rouse her senses; now she looked up into the sky, and a tiny red bird was descending, until it landed with poise and grace upon her shoulder.  
  
“February?”  
  
The red bird's head slightly nodded; she then bent down and began pecking at the fabrics of Mutsuki's vest. It was the sort of sight that could melt hearts and cause heads to swoon; but Mutsuki could only muster enough of a smile and good mood to stroke the bird on the back with her thumb.  
  
“You should probably be off,” said Mutsuki. “I mean, I'd love for you to stay, but something... something really bad is going to happen today, and...”  
  
All that came up in response was an innocent chirp.  
  
“You wouldn't understand, would you?” she said, and wiped her tears. “But that's fine. I appreciate your presence anyway.”  
  
The bird looked puzzlingly at the moss-covered monument. But only for a moment; she turned her little neck back at Mutsuki, and began tweeting again.  
  
“Ah... this monument?” she said. “They built it in memory of those who fell in the Abyssal War. Fairies, base personnel... and my sister.”  
  
February now straightened her back, and stood in place, and looked back at Mutsuki. For once she _stopped_ ; no twitching feet, no shifting posture, no tweeting, no nothing.  
  
Did she understand what Mutsuki say? Did she understand her mood? Or did she understand nothing, like every other animal reacting randomly and instinctively? Mutsuki wouldn't know; but she could use sympathy, or the _illusion_ of sympathy if that was truly all she could get.  
  
“She shares your name, but in our language. _Kisaragi. February,_ ” she said. “That's why... I'm sorry, that's not your name. You aren't her. I've been-” Mutsuki looked at the bird, and smiled; tears were coming to her eyes now. “I've been a silly fleet girl. I'm sorry-”  
  
The sound of footsteps on the grass made Mutsuki swing around; she had barely finished wiping her tears when the image of a very brightly smiling Yuudachi entered her vision.  
  
“I know I can find you here, _poi_.”  
  
“Yu-Yuudachi- _chan_?”  
  
“Mmm,” said Yuudachi; she was swiping some stray strands of white hair off her forehead. “I'm – kind of – worried about you, _poi_.”  
  
“I'm... I'm alright,” Mutsuki said. “I think.”  
  
“Did you sleep well?” said Yuudachi. She looked straight at Mutsuki's eyes, and then smiled. “E-he-he, silly question, right, _poi_? Otherwise you wouldn't be sitting here at this hour.”  
  
Mutsuki found herself smiling along. “You can't sleep as well, right, Yuudachi- _chan_?”  
  
“Nah,” said Yuudachi. “I'm just excited, _poi_. Don't quite know why, _poi._ ”  
  
Yuudachi was always like that; easy to rouse and hard to fall asleep, and always fond of exciting things, be they good or bad.  
  
“Aren't you worried at all?”  
  
“And what good would that do, _poi_?” Yuudachi said. “If we have done something wrong, wouldn't it be right to submit to judgement? If we haven't, then at least we aren't ashamed with ourselves; isn't that the most important thing, _poi_?”  
  
Mutsuki blinked. “Um... that's one way to look at it,” she said. “But-”  
  
That was all she could manage to say, when Yuudachi pulled her into a tight embrace that eked a gasp out of her.  
  
“We'll pull through,” she said, and for the first time in forever there was no _poi_ in her voice. “We'll pull through, alright? Just trust me!”  
  
There was but two things that Mutsuki could remember of that moment: Warmth in her chest, and the tweeting of a tiny bird at her side...

 

 

***

  
Kongou woke up, still dreaming of the aftertaste of yesterday's feasts. She'd had two portion for lunch, and another one for dinner, and frankly speaking she could use another or two right about now.  
  
The first thing she felt was a heavy sensation cross her shoulder. Hiei's arm was wrapped around her, as if afraid Kongou would drift away if she would let go. A smile came to Kongou's face: given all of the _bad things_ she had got into, was there any surprise Hiei would be so clingy? Heck, she couldn't remember _when_ Hiei had slipped under her blanket, but it must be a while after she'd drifted into sleep.  
  
Couldn't be helped, Kongou thought to herself. Couldn't be the buzzing, energetic Kongou everyone knew and loved without food and drink and sleep, could she?  
  
In fact, as she'd found out, emotional distress was best cured with good food, a hot drink, a warm bath and a good, long sleep, all of which they'd gladly let her have. And a long cuddle and smooching with the Admiral, too, which they... didn't. Ah well, four out of five wasn't half bad.  
  
Wherever Kongou was going there was probably none of that waiting for her. Part of Kongou would want to keep lying there and be a lazy fast battleship for once; moored and sleeping a boring day away until someone sounded the sortie – which wasn't coming because no real enemy to fight.  
  
_Well, not like there's any use staying in bed._  
  
That posed the next question: Hiei's arm was still pinning her to the bed. Which _would_ have been a very real hindrance if not for how _used_ Kongou had been to the correct answer.  
  
She brushed her finger against Hiei's cheek.  
  
“ _Uuuung- please be gentle, onee-sama..._ ”  
  
Hiei's cheeks turned bright red in her sleep, and she withdrew her embracing arm to her own chest; and Kongou smiled triumphantly. Like she didn't know what was always going on in her second sister's head, the pure and passionate part, and the equally passionate but not so pure.  
  
_I'm always gentle, dess!_  
  
Kongou breathed lightly, and left the futon as gently as she could. Outside, dawn was shining brightly through the clouds. She smiled to herself: perhaps the day wasn't going to be so bad after all, disciplinary hearing and whatnot.  
  
_I have done what I have in good faith. There is nothing to be afraid of._  
  
True to her thoughts, Kongou stretched, waved hello to the sun. Then she changed into her day-clothes, and prepared to meet whatever awaited her.  
  
_If it has to go south, let it go south in the most epic, memorable way I can have it!_  
  
_Fast Battleship Kongou, sortieing. Everyone, follow up, dess!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The only reason for the part with Gandalf so that this chapter wouldn't be all about yuri hints. I am bad at this.  
> \- A while ago, someone asked about Musashi. Well, here she is. For like a sixth of a chapter


	34. Part the Thirty-Third

**PART THE THIRTY-THIRD**   
  
**IN WHICH KONGOU WOULD BE PAINFULLY STUFFED INTO THE FACTORY**

  
  
  
“One, two, one, two, testing.” Kirishima's voice echoed over the briefing room. The mic on her collar was working perfectly; and Kirishima did adore her own voice over the sound system to some extent. “Alright,” she said. “We're all here, aren't we?”  
  
This was not, per say, where she would rather sit. She did not get to talk to Gandalf (or give him a piece of her mind). She did not get to talk to the returnees from Rivendell and ask what _exactly_ had gone on (beyond an impersonal report). She did not get to see Kongou at all (or attend her hearing).  
  
In fact, for the last two days she was essentially under partially self-imposed house arrest, by the Admiral's advise. If they were to keep the place cohesive and eliminate any rumor of nepotism or favoritism, he had said, then this was required.  
  
Besides, this the Admiral had told her also, and only her: “I need you to think up something for me.”  
  
This 'something', incidentally, was the reason why she was here in this orange-lit room, at a square table around which gathered the base's operational mid-level echelon.  
  
Cmdr. Nanbu, naval infantry brigade.  
  
Cmdr. Minase, logistics and supplies.  
  
Lt. Cmdr. Fujiwara, combat engineering company.  
  
Lt. Cmdr. Date, air transport brigade.  
  
Lt. Cmdr. Hikawa, amphibious company.  
  
Captain Luckfield, Spec-ops specialist (and one of the few Yanks in a light-year).  
  
Captain Mizuha, military medic company.  
  
And a Mr. Ohmiya Kensuke, representing the civilian contractors on premise.  
  
The rest of the space was disproportionately occupied by carrier fleet girls: 2nd and 5th Carrier Division, Hiryuu, Souryuu, Shoukaku and Zuikaku. First Carrier Division, Akagi and Kaga, flanking Nagato – sitting there half as an observer and half as advisor – at the far corner of the table.  
  
A series of collated maps of the Misty Mountains was spread over the bulk of the table, collated into a patchwork panorama six feet by twelve, dotted with annotations in _romaji_ and _katakana_.  
  
Kirishima could hear her every inner organ grumbling. She hadn't eaten well, or slept well, or actually done anything but brainstorming. _This_ has _to work_ , she told herself. _For the Admiral, and..._  
  
“Shall we begin, Nagato-san?” Kirishima asked, throwing a mostly deferential glance at Nagato. Mostly.  
  
“You're calling the shots here,” said Nagato. “Go ahead, Kirishima- _san_.”  
  
That was a little too... encouraging, coming from Nagato, that Kirishima was taken aback – but only momentarily. “Alright, ladies and gentlemen,” she said, and rapped her pointing-stick against the map.  
  
“According to my calculations, there is an eighty-nine-point-sixty-eight-and-a-half percent chance to the nearest digit, that the Admiral will approve assistance to be granted to Thorin Oakenshield's company,” she began. “But I think this assistance should be _more_ than just bringing a foreign head-of-state and his bodyguards over the Misty Mountains and beyond.”  
  
_Foreign head of state. Yeah right_ , thought Kirishima. _And I haven't seen heads or tails of him yet._ But if that was what the Admiral insisted, then that was what the terminology would be.  
  
She looked about the room. “While waiting for the general staff office to approve, I thought... maybe we should get started with the planning part. So, that brings us to... _Operation MM_. On paper, at least.” _No mumbling in objection. Good._  
  
“Our objective is thus twofold: One, to take Thorin's Company over the mountain range without incidence or loss without incurring unacceptable losses ourselves or wearing thin our new friends' patience due to excessive destruction of the local landscape.” Kirishima shot a glance at Akagi and received an approving nod back in return. “And two, to establish a foothold on the _East_ side of the Mountain.”  
  
And _now_ the mumblings and looking about started. Kirishima clutched the pointing stick like it was a sword; _knowing_ this reaction would come around was one thing, actually facing it with an iron will was another.  
  
“Wouldn't that be too soon?” said Minase. “We've hardly consolidated any sort of _territory_ here yet.” He turned up the bill of his cap.  
  
“And what about my boys' plan to rework a suitable infrastructure system from the Old Ford to Bree?” said Fujiwara, raising his massive brows. “I'm sure we've submitted the outline two weeks ago!”  
  
“That's is too much work for questionable gains,” said Kirishima. “You have got Fubuki- _san_ 's report. There is not much economic activities of gain that we can partake of by making headway to Breeland without investing more to build up that area.”  
  
“Really,” said Fujiwara. “What are the odds Fubuki-san's report has been compromised by-” He coughed quietly. “You know what I mean, Kirishima-san.”  
  
The mere mention of the incident made Kirishima want to choke a certain grey-haired bastard with his own hat. Perhaps this was why the Admiral had decided to give her a task far away from anywhere the wizard was. Good for the geezer. She might as well beat him into a pulp on sight.  
  
“It is-” Kirishima tried to hide her shudder – and largely succeeded. “It is certainly possible, but not probable,” she said. “You've seen the aerial shots. Bree is not an industrial center, and the dwarves' homes is even further West.” She looked around, and old Fujiwara's twitching eyes made her more confident. “Can we rework a hundred-miles road? Yes, if we strain ourselves to the limit. Should we? I think the answer is obvious. Too much work for too little gain while we're too resource-strapped.”  
  
“Well, what _is_ there to gain on the East side of the Misty Mountains that we can't have here?” said Minase. “It's miles upon miles of wilderness either way.”  
  
“Operationally, or strategically, Commander?” said Kirishima. “The operational gain is obvious. There's a very large countryside from the East slope of the Misty Mountains to the Lonely Mountain, and anything can happen along the way. We need at the very least a depot and some fortifications as a fallback option should anything go wrong. And strategically... being able to project an air presence on either side of the Misty Mountain would open up many more possibilities – not least being able to procure more maps. Which translates directly into food.”  
  
“I don't necessarily object to that,” said Fujiwara. “But wouldn't it be too ambitious to think of anything more than temporary fortifications at this point? It's not like we have an abundance of resources for any expansion.”  
  
“Because,” said Kirishima, “given the incident with Akagi- _san_ and the information we've gleaned from other … interactions, there's sufficient ground to believe that any foray into the country East of here will meet with considerable opposition from what the locals call _goblins_. You've got Akagi- _san_ 's report on the April 20 Incident.”  
  
There was a shudder to her voice. She spoke louder; hoping it would conceal her nervousness. “Anything less than going all-out into fortification and turning this temporary installation into a permanent outpost would risk casualties or attrition or other unacceptable losses due to underpreparation. ”  
  
“And how are we going to ferry materiel that way?” said Date; the rising star among the commissioned officers and well on his way to an early promotion before... well, this happened. “With how low fuel's getting, our cargo planes aren't taking off any time soon. Or ever, unless these _elves_ and _wizards_ can somehow conjure jet fuel out of nowhere!”  
  
“By eagles,” said Akagi. “I've spoken to Gwaihir- _sama –_ their... _king_ , so to speak. He'd be happy to lend us some help as far as air transport is concerned; as long as we don't overstay our welcome, or put his subordinates in harm's way. They obviously can't carry as much as quickly as good as modern cargo planes, but if we're talking basic equipment, materiel and manpower they should make it.””  
  
“Beyond that, spare parts, electronics and smaller equipment can be ferried by our air wings,” said Zuikaku. “And hooking together several planes could produce just the lift for moderate-sized equipment as well!”  
  
“And what if the eagles can't – or doesn't want – to help us ferry materiel and men across the mountain?” Date said.  
  
“I've got a guarantee from their leader,” said Akagi. “Isn't it good enough?”  
  
“No it isn't!” cried Date. “Depending on _talking giant animals_ who might sooner _eat_ our men than help them? No thank you!”  
  
“Let me remind you, Lt. Commander,” said Kirishima icily, “that for the last _five years_ the JSDF has had to depend on _talking ships_ to keep our shipping lanes open and our citizens from starving; and until this mess landed us all here? It had been _working_.”  
  
The young officer went a little pale. “That's-that's different like day and night!”  
  
“Not that different in spirit,” said Kirishima. “The JSDF had been faced with a new issue then and had to adapt and adopt previously unthinkable solutions – or else fail in the mission given to us. The same applies here. New issues. New solutions. Adapt and adopt, or fail.”  
  
“Besides, it isn't like we don't have our precautions,” said Souryuu. “Keep the eagles escorted at all time by a full squadron of fighters – or several. If someone attacks them, they'll get machinegunned. If the eagles turn against us, they'll get machinegunned.”  
  
Akagi coughed. Zuikaku burst into a tiny laugh. “Sorry,” she said.  
  
Date opened his mouth, and closed it again, and Kirishima nodded. “Any other objection? Good.”  
  
Now she circled the pointing-stick around two annotated spots on the East side of the mountain. The first, “MME-01”, was smack on the Eastern slope of the mountain range, to the Northeast of the naval district. The second, “MME-02”, was a little further South and East, well into the wilderness beyond the Eastern foothill, where the terrain was flatter and more open.  
  
“We would then establish an airfield, either at point MME-1, here – next to the mountainside and easy to dig in,” she said, tapping the stick on the map. “Or point MME-2, here – close to a stream for water and plenty of options for expansion. Construction should be done in stages: First a landing strip, then a depot, then bunkers, trenches and redoubts, and _then_ perhaps barracks.”  
  
“You'll forgive me, Kirishima- _san_ ,” said Fujiwara. “if I am reluctant to involve my men in this gamble. Even if we can trust the eagles not to eat them or dropping them to their death or get shot down on the way somehow, that's still exposing them to a complete wilderness, cut off from all means of resupply except by air. What if these goblins attack them while they're still setting up?”  
  
Kirishima smiled. Triumphantly. _That's it._  
  
“That's where fairies come in.” she said.  
  
“But- aren't fairies inseparable from their vessels?” said Mizuha.  
  
“Not if they are air crew and repair engineers,” said Kirishima, bending her pointing-stick for emphasis, and cast a glace all over the rank of carriers. “There is a reason I've summoned here today _only_ carriers. Your air crew will be instrumental in this operation.”  
  
“Kirishima- _san_ ,” said Akagi sternly. “I... hate to be that carrier, but I'm _not_ going to have my pilot fairies fight as infantrymen!”  
  
“Who said I'm having your air crew fight as infantry?” said Kirishima. “We still have access to a company of fairy paratroopers and several airborne armored and artillery units. On the mountainside their size becomes a strength, not a weakness: fairy-sized artillery can lock down an entire mountain pass while not compromising mobility much.”  
  
“Aren't our paratrooper fairies naval infantry though?” said Nanbu. “I don't know if sending them to fight in _mountains_ is a good idea...”  
  
“They're supposed to be defending, not assaulting, a position, for which they should be well-equipped enough,” said Kirishima. “And if that doesn't work well enough, there's also the possibility of using landed Zeroes as semi-mobile machinegun emplacements, and strategically placed jury-rigged bombs as defensive traps – and that's only until we've got enough infrastructure down to actually send in destroyers and a battleship or two! After that, it's all a question of keeping supplies air-dropped for the garrison fleet, while circling planes in and out of ground duties. Add human combat engineers as needed, until the job's done. It gets easier the more infrastructure goes up.” _Breathe in. Breathe out. Deliver the cincher. “_ And then it's only a matter of delivering the dwarves cross the mountain via eagles. _”_  
  
Silence. Followed by staring. Very much staring.  
  
“That's... unexpected,” said Kaga.  
  
“And risky,” said Souryuu.  
  
“And crazy!” exclaimed Hiryuu.  
  
“... and crazy enough to work!” said Zuikaku, only to balk at the collective stare every other carrier was pelting her with. “What? I'm just speaking my mind!”  
  
That little exchange summed up the briefing room's opinion of Kirishima's idea. A few were nodding. The vast majority... didn't know if they should shake, or nod, or simply slam their palm against their forehead.  
  
Kirishima didn't mind the doubt. In fact, that was a lot better than the reaction she thought she would get. “So, Lt. Cmndr,” She glanced at the combat engineer chief. “I promise I will not commit any of your men to frontline construction unless and until the perimeter has been secured. Does that answer your question?” She looked to Nagato's side of the table. “Nagato- _san_?”  
  
The Big Seven battleship was nodding and smiling. It was one of those very few times Kirishima saw Nagato smiling – in earnest.  
  
“Not bad,” she said. “You _can_ do this after all, Kirishima- _san_. Though there's just one thing I'm a little doubtful-”  
  
Nagato never had the opportunity to voice her concern: a sharp knock at the door caused her to fall at once silent.  
  
“Come in.”  
  
Hardly had she finished the sentence when the door _swung_ open into the opposite wall with enough force to sunder it from the pivot. The whole room turned around; but everyone could probably have _guessed_ what had happened before irrefutable proof came crashing into them in the face.  
  
“Hey, hey! Missed me, _dess_?”  
  
Into the room walked Kongou with such a broad grin one might be forgiven to think she'd just had _quality time_ with the Admiral, rather than having just faced an inquiry. She walked in front of Nagato, and raised her hand and made like she would give the former Secretary Ship a headpat. _Then_ she skipped towards Kirishima's place at the head of the table, and made like giving her a headpat.  
  
She did neither of the sort. There was a flash of newly-acquired maturity in her eyes, although one would need to squint. Any maturity inside Kongou was more often than not drowned under several layers of energy.  
  
And Kirishima found herself smiling, because why should she have expected any less?  
  
Now Kongou had marched in front of the row of commissioned officers. She spun around with a flourish.  
  
“Thought I'd come down to say hi to our new bosses.” And then at once she flipped towards the wide open doorway. “Right, guys?”  
  
“K-Kongou _-san_!” squeaked Fubuki's voice. “P-please don't cause any more trouble!”  
  
And it really was her: as if on cue, into the room inched Fubuki into the room, her cheeks rapidly turning beet red, and started bowing at the row of officers. After her came Mutsuki with much the same embarrassed-half-to-death expression, except there was a tweeting bird on her shoulder and it made her bowing look that much more comedic. And Yuudachi? Pouting as though entirely disappointed at how things had happened. She, alone, only tipped her head.  
  
“Wait, isn't the inquiry still ongoing? What... exactly happened up there?” Nagato said, and now _she_ was blushing too. And who could have blamed her? The energy and cuteness contained in the hurricane that used to be Fubuki's fleet was _overwhelming_.  
  
Yuudachi folded her arms and puffed her cheeks. “Nothing exciting happened, _poi_...” she said, “Um... except we got scolded-”  
  
“And given a new task!”  
  
Kongou marched right in front of the engineering chief, and saluted with a very broad grin on her face.  
  
“Fujiwara- _chuusa_ ,” she exclaimed with a salute and a stomping of her heel. “Fast Construction Battleship Kongou, awaiting deployment!”  
  
“Now, now, what could possibly have-” The Lt. Commander's jaw dropped as realization sank in. “Wait. _Fast_ ** _Construction_** _Battleship_?”  
  
“Yes sir!” said Kongou. “From today, I'm a Field Engineering fleet girl! New rigging coming in a few days, _dess_! Something about replacing some of my guns with cranes, wrecking balls and other materiel as needed.” She dusted her shoulders. “ _Mou_ , I've got a _bad_ feeling about this...”  
  
“I... um... I don't think it's a good idea making such a splash,” said Fubuki. Now she dragged Mutsuki after her, and presented herself before the engineering chief, salute and everything “Um... Special-type Destroyer Fubuki, Mutsuki-class Destroyer Mutsuki, and Shiratsuyu-class Destroyer Yuudachi, awaiting order! We'd be glad if you'd have us after-”  
  
“Come _on_ , _poi_!” said Yuudachi. “I said _nothing_ of importance happened except them giving us a bit of a scolding!”  
  
“I, I don't think that's how you can describe what actually happened though...” said Fubuki.  
  
It took the _whole room_ five minutes for the energy infused by Kongou's presence to settle down, and for an account to actually be provided. By _Yuudachi_ of all people.  
  
To trim down her account of all the pouting and all the _poi_ , Fubuki's fleet did not got away _completely_ unscathed. Fubuki's pending commendation for valor during the Ironbottom Campaign (which was all but pinned on her chest) was suspended. Kongou was reminded that she was _this_ close to actually being court-martialed, which would mean kissing her entire medal case goodbye. Mutsuki and Yuudachi... well, got a reprimand and a reminder to “not engage wizards without explicit permission from a direct superior.”  
  
And finally, the entire fleet was now moved to the Combat Engineering company, except it was no longer a _fleet_ and therefore under the direct command of the base's engineering chief, awaiting the next operation. Something about "extraordinary allowances given for an extraordinary unprecedented situation" was cited for their punishment - if it could indeed be called a punishment. Well, perhaps for Kongou it kind of was.  
  
Kirishima kept her mouth shut and her lips turned up into a smile. But anyone who would look at her closely that exact moment would perhaps find her eyes sparkling beneath her glasses.  
  
_Just according to keikaku._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- All human officer names are references to various Super Robot Wars characters.
> 
> \- Translator's Note: Keikaku means plan.


	35. Part the Thirty-Fourth

**PART THE THIRTY-FOURTH**   
  
**IN WHICH A FAREWELL WAS BIDDEN AND A RETROFIT CAME UP SHORT**

 

_(Aka. A return to Cute Shipgirls Doing Cute Shipthings at last?)_

  
When the modification procedure was done, Kongou's first thought was not remembering it had even taken place. In fact, it felt like she had just gone to sleep and woken up after a very, very... well, inappropriate dream. So much so, that opening her eyes to see a mass of pink hair and a green one instead of a lot of the colour white was... disorienting. And slightly embarrassing.  
  
“All done!” cried Akashi triumphantly, because who else could that have been? “How do you feel, Kongou- _san_?”  
  
Kongou sat up on the bed; because it was a bed in the clinic. Fixing rigging was always a bit less like pure technology and more like magical thingamabob combined with a bit of medical practice – for which Kongou couldn't be more glad. Why have her little _procedure_ held in a dusty machine shop with sputtering air filter when she could wake up seeing the not-quite-familiar white ceiling of the clinic instead?  
  
Now Kongou shifted herself about. Her arms felt all right; her legs felt all right, nothing too wrong with her weight or balance. And – she looked at her own face in the hand-mirror Yuubari helpfully provided – nothing was wrong with her features or skin tone or hair colour.  
  
“Like nothing has changed, _dess_!” said Kongou, blinking fast. “If this were a paid-for job, Yuubari- _chan_ , I'd say I've been scammed!”  
  
Then she stood up, and _now_ felt something off: like a whole lot of excess weight had been shaved off her. _Wait, that sounds wrong._ At any rate moving now was a little easier than it used to be, and no fair maiden could say no to that, fleet girl or no. “I feel light,” she said. “Well, not _that_ light, though...”  
  
“What did you expect, us ripping out half of you and replace it with brand-new parts?” said Akashi, flicking her hair. “All we've done is take out the floatplane catapults and torpedo tubes and a bunch of spare torps in your magazine you aren't using anyway because land operations, and fill the space with tools Fujiwara- _chuusa_ would appreciate you having. As much fleetgirl-sized industrial tools as we can afford.” She held out a long annotated notebook – well, calling it a small notebook was like calling a tiger a cat: technically correct, but not a very accurate description at all. “Here's the manual .”  
  
Kongou exhaled with a loud _ah._ “The way Kirishima _-chan_ said it I thought you're going to take out half my guns and replace them with cranes or something equally outlandish!” she said. “I mean, I wouldn't mind all that much, but a body modification is a bitter pill to swallow, _dess_!”  
  
Akashi yawned. “I'm pretty sure someone would have a huge problem with that, and I don't mean you.”  
  
“Who, who?” said Kongou. “The Admiral?”  
  
“I wish I could say you're dead wrong,” said the repair ship. “But you're right-”  
  
Kongou blinked, then blinked again, then blinked some more. “ _REALLY_?” she shouted, and her head felt a bit lighter. It might also be whatever dream she'd been having coming back, because the next thing Kongou could remember doing, was grinning like an idiot. _He_ does _like me as I am!_  
  
“Hey, hey,” said Akashi, waving her hands in front of Kongou's face. “Earth to Fast Battleship Kongou.” She shrugged one shoulder with a _we've lost her_ look on her face.  
  
Except Kongou wasn't quite _that_ far gone into her daydream yet – she shot out her hand and grabbed Akashi's wrist.  
  
The repair ship yelped; Kongou was staring long into her eyes – triumphantly. “Never, ever let your guard so down, _dess_!”  
  
“I, I'm fragile, you know!” exclaimed Akashi, and jerked her wrist out of Kongou's grip. “Gotta keep myself looking good, I've got a special presentation to make tomorrow!”  
  
“Ooooh?” said Kongou, drawing her face closer to the repair cruiser's. “Tell me _mooore_ , won't you?”  
  
“Ah, it's nothing, Kongou- _san_ ,” said Yuubari. “The Admiral is asking Akashi- _chan_ to represent the naval engineering unit to close a deal with the dwarves; basically telling them what we need and squeeze as much material as we can get out of them.”  
  
“Pretty sure if the wizard's sitting with them you're in for a lost cause,” said Kongou darkly. “He's going to make you sell refined oil for iron of equivalent weight, and then make you say _please_ and _thank you very much_ for it.”  
  
“Nope, we're in luck, no wizard to deal with,” said Yuubari. “I just saw Nagato escorting him over to the dock. Said they're leaving for Rivendell in the afternoon.”  
  
“Wait, really?” asked Akashi quizzically.  
  
“Yeah, I'd thought he would stay and see if they'd make a fool of themselves,” said Kongou, “and try to fix it or something.”  
  
Now, the dwarves... to be honest, Kongou didn't know how exactly to feel about the lot of them – partly because they were such a large and diverse bunch that any attempt to describe them collectively was already doomed to failure. Not to say they had all been bad to her, on the contrary she wouldn't have offered to carry a chunk of their bags for them if they had been. But Thorin Oakenshield and his idiotic very-important-noble-prince-lord-king persona _really_ needed to go.  
  
Yuubari shrugged. “Something about needing to speak urgently to Elrond- _san,_ ” she said. “Since Nagato- _san_ is heading back that way, she's taking him along.”  
  
“Did they now?” said Kongou. “Have they actually left yet? A pity if they have...”  
  
“Oh? Thinking of giving the geezer a piece of your mind again?” said Akashi.  
  
Yuubari placed her fingertip at her lips. “Don't think they've left yet, but-” Her voice trailed off – and then suddenly became more animate. “Yeah, and chasing someone down just to shout at them is such an obviously _tsundere_ thing to do, isn't it?” said Yuubari. “Right, Kongou- _san_?”  
  
A lightbulb went off in Kongou's bridge, and she had no idea whether it was because of the wording or the insinuation or whatever.  
  
She did know one thing: an _idea_ had lit up within her, and to be Kongou meant never, ever, letting a spark of an idea go wasted. “You know what,” she said. “Let's see if I can catch him, _dess_!”  
  
She jumped off the bed, and dashed out of the clinic post-haste.  


***

  
Kongou's feet hammered along the asphalt. In fact, she wasn't quite sure _what_ she was thinking.  
  
It was illogical to go seek out the _wizard_ after all that _fustercluck_ , and yet it felt so not right to just let him just _leave_ without a proper closure of a sort. They had not quite spoken after she blew up at him several days back, and she _did_ have to thank him a whole lot by making a very convincing case that _no, what the hell were you gentlemen thinking, this girl has done none of the wretched nasty things you thought she did_!  
  
She skidded to a halt in front of the first pier into the riverside. And just in time, too: her eyes caught a tall, lanky shape clad in grey with a funny pointy hat on it.  
  
“Gandalf,” she said. "Going somewhere?"  
  
Indeed it was him: The wizard was waiting there at the pier, Ikazuchi on one side and Inazuma on the other. Nagato was down in the water, tying the white elven boat to her rigging.  
  
“Why, my dear Miss Kongou,” said Gandalf, turning around and tipping his hat. “Both a surprise and not quite so.”  
  
Now Kongou drew a stiff breath. She turned towards the waterside. “Nagato- _san_ ,” she said. “Just to double-check, since you're here I _am_ authorized to speak to the wizard, aren't I?”  
  
Nagato was narrowing her eyes. “I... suppose there's nothing too wrong with it,” she said. “I'm watching you.” Was it a reminder, or reassurance, or a warning? Or maybe all three rolled into one? Honestly, Kongou would be fine either way.  
  
She swallowed. She did not _have_ to be here. In fact, she could think of at least three reasons why it would be a good idea never to see the wizard again except at his own funeral. But then there was this pool of energy inside her that was driving her on, and egging her it _wouldn't_ sit right with her, until she'd given this whole business some kind of closure.  
  
“I was wondering when you would come running by; why, I offered a bet with Lady Nagato, though she doesn't quite appreciate it!” A glare was shot up from below the pier.  
  
Kongou furrowed her brows. “Please stop doing that ' _predicting what people will do_ ' thing,” she said. “It's creepy as _heck_ , and your name isn't Sherlock Holmes, _dess_!”  
  
“My predictions are often profitable for those who would like it,” said Gandalf, “and enormously amusing for me in other cases.”  
  
But now his head dipped, and his brows seemed to become a little more frazzled. “But alas, I am well aware I have erred quite greatly; for in my long life I have often forgotten that my designs may not always be to best end,” he said, and again take off his head. “So this I shall say: I shall not from this day make undue subtle arrangements of events to persuade the Battleship Kongou and any of those she hold dear, to a course of action of my choosing without their express consent. My word you shall have, in as much stock as my Order put in it at any rate; and my apology along with it.”  
  
And what could Kongou say to that? She wasn't entirely capable of maintaining a grudge for very long (in fact few fleet girls were able to – they'd have gone Abyssals that way). Particularly so when the wizard had offer peace first.  
  
“You're laying it down a bit thick here, you know that, right?” she said, and then burst into a chuckle of her own. “I _like_ that, _dess_!” She paused, and then snapped her thumb. “Oh, and aren't you waiting for the Admiral's talk with the dwarves?” she said. “I thought you were practically their commander?”  
  
“Oh, no, you flatter me, my dear miss,” said Gandalf. “I am but a rather ordinary advisor for an extraordinary sort of company. I have done what I can, as far as this part of their quest is concerned.” There was pride in his voice, a simple and sincere kind pride and optimism, like a teacher seeing his struggling student beginning to succeed against the odds after all. “It would not, at any rate, reflect well on the future King Under the Mountain to enter negotiation with a wizard sitting behind whispering in his ears.”  
  
“You can't make up your mind if you're meddlesome or not, can you, old man?” chided Kongou.  
  
“Can't make up my mind? Well, thank you! You can certainly couch it that way if it makes you feel better,” said Gandalf with a chuckle. “But if I am to be truthful, sometimes the best meddling you can do is not to meddle at all! I could only nudge those who would be heroes towards a truly heroic course; but if they are truly destined for greatness they would have to walk the extra miles themselves. All too often would-be heroes end up stopped before their feet have left the door, for the comfort of hearth and home and a full larder and a collection of Old Toby's is too great to overcome.”  
  
“If I see you try one of those things again, on anyone in this base” she said, “I'll let you in on one of my newest experiments; _can a 14-inch naval gun send a wizard to the moon?_ ”  
  
“Ignoring the matter of my words, which you have already had,” Gandalf brushed his beard. “ _If you see me try one of these things_ again, you said, my dear miss? I guess that means we shall be seeing each other soon enough?” said the wizard. “Such as assisting a certain dwarf to reclaim a certain home?”  
  
Kongou glanced around; down the water's edge at Nagato, and then at the two very anxious-looking destroyers. _Right, better not babble._  
  
“Pretty sure I can't tell you that,” she said, flicking her hair. “But if that certain dwarf asks nicely enough and drops his rudeness well enough, I can introduce him to someone who'd be _so_ glad to have him – and I do mean _have_ him for breakfast, lunch and dinner and whatever comes after...”  
  
The pier suddenly became so quiet Kongou could hear the breeze blowing. “ _Dess_?”  
  
Inazuma flailed her hands. “I-is that appropriate, _nanodesu_?”  
  
“I'll pretend I haven't heard anything!” exclaimed Ikazuchi.  
  
Nagato's palm hit her forehead. “Let me remind you, Kongou-san, you've just avoided being court-martialed...”  
  
But then her voice fell silent. In the distance came more footsteps: running steps, loud and crisp and so, so panicked.  
  
“Kongou- _san_!”  
  
There in front of them stood Bucky, wiping the sweat off her brows and panting. Looking like she had just ran clear across the base. Perhaps she really _had_ ; the engineering company's place really _was_ on the opposite side of the district from the pier, just next to the airfield.  
  
“I-I heard Yuubari- _san_ say you're coming this way... to 'fire a parting shot' at Gandalf- _san_ or something...” she said. “I'm just... I'm just afraid you'll get into trouble again!”  
  
“Ah, Miss Fubuki,” said the wizard. “Rest assured, the good Miss Kongou has done nothing of the sort! At this rate she might have hope at becoming a truly well-behaved noble ladies of the Southern court just yet!” He looked about the dockside again, and chuckled. “It's becoming quite the farewell party, isn't it?”  
  
“I...” Bucky straightened her posture. Kongou didn't know what exactly was going on inside Bucky's head, but she could make a pretty good guess. She shot a glance down at Nagato, and received a nod back in return. “I suppose you can... you can say that, sir.”  
  
Now the wizard straightened his back. “I have yet had an opportunity to truly apologize to you, or to your fleet-mates,” he said. “As Kongou has had my oath, you shall have it too, and my apology beside: rest secure in the knowledge that the meddling of Gandalf, known among the elves as Mithrandir and among dwarves as _Tharkun_ , shall not bebother you without your permission. It might not be in your heart to grant me forgiveness, as is the prerogative of the wronged; but all the same I should offer my word of redress, as is the prerogative of the wrong-doer.” He paused. “I would have said the same to the Misses Yuudachi and Mutsuki. If you would not mind passing my words to them, I should be in your debt.”  
  
Bucky looked lost for word; at once she began to look around for help.  
  
And who else would gladly help her than Kongou herself? So she stepped forward, and again her palm found its place on Bucky's shoulder – it felt a little wet and a little warm, and only got warmer as Bucky's cheeks worked up a flush.  
  
“I'll take it; I accept,” she said at last. “And... I think you should know this, sir.” Her back and shoulders stiffened. “Gandalf- _san_ , I'm not... I'm not against helping you, or against helping the dwarves, or even against putting myself against a dragon if that would help people,” she said. “In fact I would have begged the Admiral to let me help you, if you had come to us without... without the manipulation part.  
  
She clasped her hands and drew a long breath. Kongou could feel the thrumming of Bucky's boilers at the tip of her fingers.  
  
"I can only say... that if my superiors wouldn't disallow it, I'd be glad to lend you a hand – and a few guns, too!”  
  
“Then,” he said, “We are truly grateful, the dwarves and I both.”  
  
Then Nagato coughed into her palm. “Let's be off, Gandalf- _san_ ,” she said, and gestured towards the boat. Behind him shuffled the two DesDiv 6 destroyers, rigging engaged and ready to set sail.  
  
She waited until the old wizard had sat down solidly inside the boat – and then turned towards the downstream river bend. “Combined fleet, weigh anchor!”  
  
And then off they went.  
  
Kongou did not know what came over Bucky – or over _herself_. All it took was a blink from Fubuki, and the next thing she knew, they were exchanging a nod, and then...  
  
“Gandalf- _san_!”  
  
“Old geezer!”  
  
“Good luck!” they both went.  
  
They may or may not have seen Gandalf waving his hat back. It did not matter: When Nagato's part of the fleet vanished behind the river bend, Bucky's head was firmly pressed against Kongou's shoulder.  
  
It was a lovely afternoon, all told.


	36. Part the Thirty-Fifth

**PART THE THIRTY-FIFTH**  
  
**IN WHICH THUCYDIDES WAS QUOTED IN MIDDLE-EARTH**

  
  
  
Thorin straightened his posture, and wished he'd spent a bit more time polishing his scale mail and filing the tassel on his silver hood. Balin had dissuaded him against taking too much care with his armour: with the kind of terrible power they could bring to bear, he argued, trying to impress was an exercise in folly. But his footsteps were now echoing loudly along the wood-tiled flooring of the Admiralty, and he decided it was good enough.  
  
The Naval District's folk had not let them run around freely, and there was only so much singing and playing and sparring and making of jokes at the expense of the nice inn-keeper lady his Company could manage before the novelty wore off.  
  
(In fact, she was sweet and smiling often enough that Thorin was all the more thankful she probably spoke not one word of Khudzul. Some of the jokes Bofur and Nori had been making about her should never be translated into a more widely spoken tongue.)  
  
By the third day of their stay, Gandalf had already departed. Of his business with the 'Admiral' he spoke preciously little, but whatever the outcome the _Tharkun_ seemed quite pleased with it; and at once Thorin knew not if it was a source of hope or despair.  
  
“ _Do take heart_ ,” he had said. “ _I shall not be away for too long. At any rate if you are to cross the Misty Mountains without me (which is likely to be the case if you could ask Lady Akagi to petition Lord Gwaihir for passage) you will find me already waiting for the Company, none too late and none too early._ _It's going to be a most fascinating and amusing sail through the air, if what they've told me would go as planned!_ ”  
  
Now they were standing before an ornate door, Thorin and Balin and Dwalin and Kili and Fili and Gloin, all of the notable nobles of Durin's line in the company. Lady Yamato smiled demurely, and opened the door for them, and held it open until Gloin inched his way warily through the doorway.  
  
Thorin and the company found themselves now standing inside a small room with an oval table. The air unnaturally cool – cool, not cold, like an autumn artificially brought about in the middle of summer.  
  
At the center of the table sat a man in white, wearing a white a billed cap and sporting moustache of matching colour. Six of his men (or women, as that was the case) gathered about him. Four were wearing identical clothes but for the colour: tunic, loose trousers, chestpiece. The fifth wore glasses and clothes and hairpins resembling Miss Kongou's. And the sixth distinguished herself with a huge, _pink_ mane of hair – imagine that!  
  
Introduction was brief and to the point. Admiral Tetsuna. Kirishima. Akagi (perhaps the same one who had made friends with the eagles ). Kaga. Hiryuu. Souryuu. Handshakes. Smile. Asking after accommodations and arrangements of food, drink and diversion. The same old protocol for very important Dwarves and Elves and Men.  
  
“ _Tharkun_ – that's the wizard Gandalf in our tongue – has spoken extremely highly about you,” said Thorin as soon as he sat down on the dwarves' side of the table. “I have had half a mind to distrust him, mind you, so high were his praises for your ship-daughters. He is convinced you can – and would – help us.”  
  
“That is something I hope to arrange, in exchange for _your_ help,” said the Admiral.  
  
“That would seem fair," said Thorin, “if we could have helped. You are the master of a very large army, and we are but nobility in exile, with preciously few good dwarves in our service.”  
  
“If it were only that simple,” said the Admiral. “Has the wizard informed you, by any chance, _how_ we came about here?”  
  
Thorin raised his brows. “That is the business of wizards, he said and I quote,” he said, “by which he probably means stuff we have no business poking our noses into.”  
  
“Then I will tell you as much as is prudent,” he said. “Then you would see, ours is hardly an enviable position.”  
  
His story, indeed, was outlandish. He spoke of a land far away from Middle-earth, perhaps beyond its bound even – like the places Men were said to go after they would pass away. He spoke of a country, quite prosperous and full of bright minds and ancient traditions from which they hailed. He spoke a little of a war, fought in an ocean many dozen times the size of Middle-earth put together, in which his army and the ship-daughters had been instrumental.  
  
And finally, he spoke of how they'd been ripped from their homeland, and dumped unceremoniously here, in Middle-earth, and left to struggle for survival.  
  
“That brings us to where we are now: alone, detached from our home, without the logistics network that a military installation of _this_ size would need,” he said. “It's imperative that we made friends, and allies if possible. Those who can help us, in exchange for our help in such way as would not shame our motherland, though we might never see it again.”  
  
It made no sense, and yet every bit of sense; from the _ship-daughters'_ outlandish appearance and power, to the frankly foreign design of their citadel, to the fact that _nothing known to dwarves made sense when it came to these people_. Now Thorin had two options. He could buy what they said, or he could laugh in their face – figuratively – for their daft tale.  
  
“It is a tall tale,” he said. “If you've spoken truly, then you have nothing but our deepest sympathy.” Because it would take a race estranged from home and scattered all over four corners of the earth to understand another likewise. “All the same, I mean no offense, far easier it is to sympathize with a lost folk, battered and unarmed, than it is to do the same for an army that commands the degree of destruction as you do.”  
  
“Ah, yes, firepower,” said the Admiral. “That is why time and time again the wizard had tried to enlist us – so far as to manipulate things a little on the side-”  
  
“Well, that sounds like him all right,” said Gloin. “Brilliant, the old chap, but play people like a fiddle he does!”  
  
“He did succeed in one thing,” said Thorin. “He arranged for this meeting between us.”  
  
“I've been taking it as a silver lining behind the clouds,” said the Admiral. “Now, one thing that needs to be made absolutely clear, because the wizard _may_ have misled you on the matter, is that we are not after your gold, or treasure, or fine craft, whatever they might be. What we need are, in order, food, spare parts and material to make them, and a friend who could lend a shoulder when bad comes to worse.”  
  
“Which sounds well enough, but I have to wonder: is that truly what you want?” said Thorin. “As an old adage of my kind says, _the heart is bold that looks on gold_. You would forgive me, my dear sir; there is already a long enough history of the dwarves having to _violently_ protect the treasure that is ours – mined as ore by our hands and crafted into wondrous things by our mastery – that we cannot fathom anyone who would turn aside gold given the opportunity.”  
  
“All the same, you haven't met our fleet girls either,” said the Admiral. “The only thing they want is good food, smiles and company.”  
  
Thorin scoffed. “Do pardon me if I do not share your complete confidence,” he said.  
  
At once the room felt cold to him: and Thorin felt exuding from the very presence of the half-dozen women a kind of pressure that would have made even the boldest of dwarrows balk. Thorin saw the Admiral waving his hand in chastisement just as the woman wearing glasses next to him was about to spring up.  
  
“Perhaps you are right, perhaps not, it does not matter,” said the Admiral. “What _does_ matter is we have a few things we need, and we were told you could provide us in exchange for things of our own, or assistance, or a combination thereof.”  
  
“Indeed.” Thorin said. Balin's glare was burning hot on his back; it would be better not to push the issue, it said. “At any rate, I am in your debt for receiving us as you are. But surely you would agree, help freely given today might become a liability tomorrow, as we would like to say. We would like concrete terms worked out if you would understand.”  
  
“Ah, then I've got just the right person for you here; our technician and mechanical engineering person,” said the Admiral. He turned towards his right. “Akashi, if you will?”  
  
The named woman inched closer towards the table. There was a curious look on her face: she pulled a small clipboard from the little bag she carried.  
  
“So, simple question, sir,” she said, looking now at her clipboard and now at Thorin. “Assume we're to source our supplies from you and your people, how much iron, coal and possibly bauxite can you give us every month?”  
  
“Iron and coal are not an issue for our settlement in the Blue Mountains,” said Thorin. “All we want for gold and gems.”  
  
“An _exact_ figure please?” said Miss Akashi, shaking her massive mane of pink. “It's hard for us to make plans with just qualifiers, you know.”  
  
“You are asking us to give an exact figure of how much minerals we can produce; which is dependent on the vagaries of the mines and Mahal's blessing, which are both always doubtful when you delve as deep as we do,” said Balin.  
  
He dug his hands into the pockets of his travel-coat. “But since you have asked, I'd say there is enough iron and coal that if we so desire, five hundred coats of steel mail we can forge in a month, and whatever materials remain would net us in helmets and war-mattocks and gauntlets and sabatons and other decorations of war to furnish that many warriors; and that is if we can find enough smiths to make them, and if there are anywhere enough warriors to be so furnished.”  
  
“That means an estimation of... ten to twenty tons in steel,” said Miss Akashi. Her brows were now deeply furrowed as her scribbling stopped, looking obviously disappointed. “Right. What about bauxite?”  
  
Balin furrowed his brows. “Bauxite?”  
  
“Oh, right, you probably don't know what it is. Hang on,” she said, and tucked her hand beneath the table, and fished out a small lump of “Here it is for a specimens.” She passed the rock across the room.  
  
Thorin took but one look at the rock. “This?” He shook his head disdainfully. “We find much of this sort of rocks, yes, and they are quite a nuisance for the honest miners who desire more precious things,” he said. “We turn them out in cartloads out of our mines and pray to Mahal he would not force more of the same upon our miners.”  
  
The woman scowled. “You are _throwing that_ away?” and now she looked at him like he was a very great fool.  
  
“Why would we not?” said Thorin, knitting his brows. “What use can you make of these worthless rocks? ”  
  
“You'll be so, _so_ surprised,” said the woman. “We can make aluminum out of them.” She tucked her hand into her pack and produced a tiny, gleaming bar. “Like so.”  
  
At once Thorin's eyes narrowed: It shone bright as silver in her palm, yet did not appear quite like silver.  
  
“Could I have a... a closer look?”  
  
The woman smiled, and passed the piece cross the table. It shone bright and cold in Thorin's hand, its lustre like silver yet its weight fivefold less.  
  
Now he held it beneath his eyes, and felt it, and gauged it, and rubbed his finger cross its surface; and he would try biting it if that wouldn't have been terribly discourteous in such a meeting. He had to rub it against the back of his palm to convince himself it was not quite mithril that he was holding; yet for most purposes it would not fall far behind. It was so bright and easy on the fingers that already Thorin could think of so many ways to turn such a precious things into beautiful, gleaming things imperishable, to be laid in great hoards.  
  
“Thorin...” Balin said, and he, too, was eying the little bar hungrily. Thorin passed the bar over to his cousin, who then passed it – very reluctantly – on to Dwalin, and then Gloin besides.  
  
“I would value this not much less than gold and certainly more than silver!” Balin looked up at the woman, and his voice trembled with great trepidation. “And... and you say you can make this from... from these rocks?”  
  
“Mind you, the conversion rate isn't exactly one to one,” said Miss Akashi. “But enough that we'd be so very grateful if you could turn over _any_ of these 'worthless rocks' to us. And other things too, that I assume you have little use for, like,” She produced a picture and passed over the table. “Sulfur-”  
  
Thorin took one glance at it. “Brimstone,” he corrected.  
  
She sent another picture across the table. “And Silicon Dioxide-”  
  
Another glance. “Quartz,” corrected Thorin.  
  
“-and oil, if any.”  
  
Now Miss Akashi produced a small, black vial the size of a finger, half-full with a liquid black and thick as goblin-blood. She handed over the little vial, then folded her arms and fell back in place. “Especially oil,” she said. “Almost as important as food and water, and we might run out of it sooner than we'd like.”  
  
“Oil,” said Thorin. He uncorked the vial and – forehead wrinkling – took a whiff. The smell was particularly unpleasant, as could be expected from such a nasty-looking thing. Now he could not claim to be personally familiar with the substance, but then again he had not been to every mine shaft that the dwarrows had dug, but- “Are you sure this can be found underground?” he asked.  
  
“Well, there are many places you could find this, in our world,” said Miss Akashi. “But yes, definitely underground. And underneath the ocean – lots there – though I'm pretty sure asking that from you is a bit... pushing it.”  
  
“I would think with how much digging our forefathers had been doing in _Khazad-dum_ they might have come across a vein or two,” said Balin. “Alas, we've lost most records of that heyday...”  
  
“Khazad-dum?” said the Admiral, now at once looking far more interested.  
  
“The greatest city of the dwarves in the world, nay, the greatest city _period_ , and the cornerstone of our race!” exclaimed Balin. Now he was at once alert and passionate; he stood up and was waving his hands about. “If only you could behold the splendour, the majesty, the _glory_ that is the Mansion of the Dwarves! Everything beneath the ground, silver and gold and mithril also, and plentiful gems and crystals and precious stones of all kind, and of course such wealth as to put even Erebor to shame! Khazad-dum, Khazad-dum, the one and only, where gold was more plentiful than water and the walls were lined not with masonry but gems and beautiful craft!”  
  
He paused, and now the passion had waned on his face, in its place now great sorrow of a kind only the _Khazad_ may truly understand. “That, of course, was back in those days of ours when the dwarves had little want for anything, even friendship with elves!” he said; now his voice had become grim, and full of regret and fury. “This great city is lost to us now, and of all the losses known to our kin the worst and bitterest, for after its fall our people became a sundered and wandering folk. If only we could one day reclaim it from the terrible dwarf-bane that had so utterly broken us and driven us out of home-.”  
  
Balin now breathed sharply, then bowed down, and wiped his eyes. “I am sorry, I have spoken out of turn,” he said, and sat back down. “That was neither here nor there.”  
  
“Well, that's... something,” said Akashi; she turned over at the Admiral. “Shall we get back on topic now?”  
  
“Ah, yes, let's,” he said – but his voice was a little distracted. Balin's account of had obviously piqued his curiosity – or perhaps his greed, or even both. Whether that was a good or ill thing, Thorin could not tell. He was quick to reassume his working posture; eyes focused and hands clasped. “In short, would it be a fair deal if we asked for _everything_ you normally throw away to be delivered to us? We've got the know-how to refine them into more useful things.”  
  
Thorin rubbed his hands now, and his mind returned to the little bar of silver that was not quite silver. “Is there any chance we can buy back some of those things you have 'refined' also?” he said. “With gold? Gems? Fine dwarven crafts?”  
  
“If we can work out a price,” said the Admiral. “Right now our assistance in exchange for steel and bauxite would be good enough.”  
  
“ _You'll regret it if we don't take this deal,_ ” said Balin, in the secretive tongue of the _Khazad_. Deep down in his heart, where greed and dragon-fever was ever lying dormant just like his father and his grandfather before him, Thorin could not think of a single reason why he should turn down such a lucrative term.  
  
Well, actually, there _was_ a reason. And it was also holding him back from swallowing the proposal hood, line and sinker.  
  
“I have one more request,” he said. “If – and that's a very big _if_ – Erebor shall be restored and my kin return to its many halls, then I would like that our business should be our own.” He stood up now, and assumed his best kingly posture. “Our forges should not become yours, nor our treasury your wealth, nor my folk your servants, nor our fate your plaything, through deed or proxy or treacherous design. It would shame my House very much, if I would clear our home of a calamity only to become a slave in my own Hall at the behest of another, put there by interlopers who have not the dwarrows' best interest at their heart.”  
  
The woman in red pants sprang up, and the Admiral could not stop her – not on time. “What... what do you take us for?” Displeasure? Or perchance an unkind memory?  
  
Next to her, the woman in blue dress with her ponytail to the side of her head shook her head and closed her eyes. When she wrenched them open, her gaze was fierce and focused – on the piece of paper upon which she was scribbling furiously.  
  
She shoved it – forcefully yet deferentially – over to the Admiral.  
  
He glanced through the notepaper, then neatly folded it into quarters and put it into his jacket pocket. He leaned forward now, and steepled his fingers.  
  
“Even if I am to say _yes_ to your request, Thorin- _kakka_ , would it _really_ allay your fear?” he said. “You have been driven out of your home by a dragon, which means he is stronger than you were. If we can get rid of him for you, that means we are even stronger than he is. If, then, we decide that your home should be _ours_ , is there _realistically_ anything you could do about it?”  
  
The dissonance between the Admiral's calm voice and the inherent threat he was hinting made Thorin sweat. He managed an aside glance at his side of the table. Kili and Fili were fidgeting nervously. Dwalin and Gloin were clenching their fists. And Balin was now looking at the Admiral and now looking at Thorin, and his whispers in Khuzdul were too incoherent and too tiny and squeaky to be of help.  
  
“Or, since now we know where your old home lies, what is there to stop us from marching our way there with a fleet, kill the dragon and take everything that used to be yours as prize of war? _The strong do what they can, and the weak suffer what they must_ , said a certain scholar once upon a time.”  
  
Thorin managed also to glance at the woman with the ponytail at the side of her head, and suddenly it looked like she was relishing at the horror now writ large on the collective face of the heirs of Durin. Then she closed her eyes and looked serene and unconfrontational again; and the corner of her mouth curled very slightly upwards as though knowing she was issuing a challenge.  
  
But Thorin did not shrink back into his seat. He might be stubborn, but he was no fool. “Why would you tell us this?” he said. “Were I a lesser and more unwise dwarf, I would have said no to any and every deal with you or your kind, and storm our way out of your strong place like a thrice-cursed Elvenking from my grandfather's halls, finding our very unreasonable term unacceptable!”  
  
“But you would not do that, precisely because you are not 'unwise',” said the Admiral. “If that had been your thought, you wouldn't have announced it to me. You'd have already left.”  
  
Thorin narrowed his eyes. “And for the same reason if you had intended truly to despoil that which belongs to dwarves, you would have done so without announcing,” he said. “Is that what you mean?”  
  
“We understand each other quite well,” said the Admiral with a slow nod. “If you want my word, _Kakka_ , I can give it to you. I can swear upon the honor of my country, my Emperor and my family that I shall not impose upon you what you insinuated. I can swear upon my _Alma Mater_ , too, all three of them; I've had many good teachers I respect nearly as much as my own parents. Why not? Words are cheap.”  
  
He picked up his glass and took a sip while Thorin was biting his dry lips.  
  
“Since you've thought so far ahead and worried about a hostile takeover before there is even a thing for us to take over,” said the Admiral, “you're well aware that words, mine and yours alike, mean exactly nothing if we don't put trust in them. And trust is best fostered by sustained, enduring, long-term mutual interest.” He paused, as if to let the words sink in. “You understand what I mean, don't you?”  
  
“Perfectly, sir.”  
  
Never before had those two words been so difficult to spit out for Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Channeling BB Kaga all day everyday.
> 
> \- The Admiral has made a huge mistake: In Middle-earth, words really mean a lot and are not cheap at all. Just ask the Sons of Feanor


	37. Part the Thirty-Sixth

**PART THE THIRTY-SIXTH**   
  
**IN WHICH GREAT HARMONY PASSED BY THARBAD AND THE GREY HAVEN**

  
  
  
It was the seventh time in the day Yamato saw the dwarf Balin inching close to the edge of the wooden barge she was towing.  
  
“I think... I'm getting... a little sick,” said the dwarf, again for the half-dozenth time. This time, he could not quite hold back, and hurled over the side of the boat.  
  
“Are you alright?” she asked. “We could go slower if you want-”  
  
“N-nah, n-never mind me, lass,” he slurred; his face turning sickly pale. “Dwarrows and w-water don't mix so... well...”  
  
Yamato completely sympathized. There'd been plenty of tough, admirable infantrymen laid low by the waves. In fact if anything it made her respect the two dwarves more: it took a certain kind of courage for sea-sick infantrymen to volunteer for a journey of a thousand miles by waterway just to seal a deal.  
  
The first day had already not looked quite well for the dwarves. By the end of the second day, Balin had hurled twice, and Yamato was only going at half speed. Gloin did not look much better: the dwarf had sworn by his axe and his hammer they'd cover the fleet until they got back to the Blue Mountains, but as things went it was hard doing that job when they were blue with motion sickness all the time.  
  
“Maybe a break would be good?” said Aoba, sailing to Yamato's right.  
  
“Nah... we can... still... hold on...” said Balin, and fell back inside the boat.  
  
Thankfully, the sun was on its way to set; the water was turning the color of ember under its light. It was good, too, that there was a landmark of a sort on the way: silhouettes of stone and wood buildings were just around the bend in the river.  
  
Now the fleet slowed down, and found themselves stopping over the site of an old town.  
  
Correction: the ruins of an old town, with a very large, ruined bridge that had previously slung over a ford in the river. Now the water there was shallow and entirely passable on foot. Not that many people had gone that way recently, if the overgrown grasses along the road and the moss-covered rocks of the ruin were of any indication.  
  
The fleet left the water; Jintsuu helped the two dwarves ashore and at once went about tying the barges to the river bank, on a jutting piece of stable-looking rock. Aoba at once made for her camera and began snapping shots like a machinegun. And Yamato looked to their ample supplies; after the whole _deal_ with Fubuki's fleet, the logistics officer had finally noticed that letting any number of fleet girls into the wilderness without a good stock to bank on would invite all sorts of unsavory things.  
  
The moment Gloin got back ashore, his colors and vigor came back. Balin was less energetic, and found himself a shade beneath an old tree. He was looking at the setting sun, his thumbs pressed against his temples. Meanwhile, Gloin had been quick: at once he charged into for the nearby ruin and thicket; he came back shortly with a piece of flint and several armfuls of branches, one after the other.  
  
“Leave it to the dwarves to start fires, lasses,” he said, hands at his waist, looking mightily proud of his handywork. It looked to her like he was desperately trying to be useful; and what could Yamato do but smile? She'd been there too, she'd understood.  
  
He was not, as it happened, boasting. In a minute flat there was a small flame, then a large campfire.  
  
“Don't go too far, Aoba- _san_ ,” she hollered, and then sat down next to the fire. Their supplies was not much, but cooking and preparing gourmet food was more a question of the chef rather than the ingredients. Her fairies helpfully provided a full array of pots, pans and half a dozen kinds of spices.  
  
She made every care not to spill sauce over her kimono – albeit not for its own sake. Three sealed letters were nestled inside the fold of her garment:.One from the Admiral. One from Master Elrond. And one from the Lord of Lindon's own footman sent to Rivendell. The barrage of diplomatic notes was almost over the top – almost. Yamato's purpose, to a certain extent, had been to suitably impress high-level dignitaries. She could do that, in pomp and in exquisite dining alike.  
  
“Let no one ever doubt Yamato's famous cuisine, Balin- _san_ , Gloin- _san_ ,” she said; her hands were deftly dancing between the pots and plates.  
  
Soon the food was ready, by which Yamato meant not just food, but _Food_. There was bread and bacon, except no longer salty but swimming in a thick orange sauce with several stalks of herbs on them. There was a thick soup whipped up from sausages and flour and paprika with a thin layer of reddish fat rising to the top. And then there was something strictly Japanese too: seaweed paper and dried fish arranged in the shape of a smiling dwarf's face. The thought it looked a little like Balin, too, with a large nose and frazzled hair and all.  
  
The first thing Balin did, of course, was to demolish his own seaweed-and-dried-fish effigy with such gusto, that he earnt himself a giggle from Jintsuu of all people, and then another from Yamato herself.  
  
His colors quickly returned; and soon enough the two dwarves were back scarfing and munching and biting and chewing. “If someone'd told me before I'd one day eat food fit for a King's feast in the middle of old Tharbad on the Greenway, broken rocks and weeds and everything,” said Balin, “I'd have laughed in his face!”  
  
Yamato quirked her brow. “Green... way?” she said, “That's what it's called, Balin- _san_?” It _was_ a somewhat romantic name for a ruin of a road.  
  
“A name meant to signify its disuse rather than any notion of beauty, mind you. Look, look, it's moss and grass and weeds for miles on end, where before the Kings of the North and South had made every effort to keep it clear.”  
  
“The road here comes by Bree, too, just so ye know, and a good way South on the other end, if only it could be used!” said Gloin. “Were the roads in better shape yer could go all the way from the Blue Mountains that far north down to Gondor in the South! Been there once; didn't like it overly much – except the Steward of Gondor, ye know, like the King except not quite – have a company of guards wearing gleaming mithril helmets! So much mithril, in this age, imagine that!”  
  
The word “Mithril” earnt him a glance from Yamato at the barge Jintsuu was pulling. Inside there was a small quantity of aluminum – for a certain value of 'small'. As long as the dwarves did not know how much aluminum the base would go through during times of plenty, the twenty pounds of aluminum and broken-down aluminum objects might as well be gold.  
  
Of course it was only a seal-the-deal kind of trade; since the barges they were towing along couldn't carry all that much bauxite if they were to fill them to the brim, they might at a net loss in aluminum when it was all said and done. As long as they could gain trust and establish a route, everything else should be quite a bit easier.  
  
Just then Aoba came skittering towards the campfire. She shoved her camera inside her backpack, and began sniffing the air.  
  
“De-li-cious!” she exclaimed. “Yamato-san? Gimme some, please?”  
  
Yamato passed her a plate of bacon and bread and gave her twice as much sauce. She smiled with her eyes closed as Aoba's face went all sparkly. “Uwhoa!” said the heavy cruiser. “Just as expected from the famous Hotel Yamato!”  
  
Yamato shook her head; her smile, however, did not quite fade. “I'm not a hotel!” she said, and this time quite meant it. She was, after all, going to be doing in Lindon pretty much what Nagato was doing in Rivendell. _Pretty much everything Nagato was doing_ _except for that **rumor** bit..._  
  
The thought alone actually drew a blush out of her. Master Elrond's two sons _were_ quite comely by any standard, and either wise and witty or wise and surly, which did absolutely nothing to detract from their... prettiness. And-  
  
She did not have time to blush for very long. “Lookie lookie!” said Aoba, spreading in front of the campfire some of the photos she'd taken. It was a complete ghost town, and the look was only eerier in photo form. Stone skeletons of houses. Mosses and lichens climbing out of glassless windows. Large spiders scurrying out of cracks on the walls. Aoba had been brave enough to go inside what used to be a temple, now wholly a wretched place with only scraps of wood and broken tiles remaining.  
  
“Town's in poor shape all right.” She sighed. “Like a war's been through, y'know.”  
  
“It's an abandoned town, Aoba- _san_ ” said Jintsuu. “It would be strange had there been anything quite intact, wouldn't it?”  
  
“And that doesn't make sense, no it doesn't!” said Aoba, pulling out her map. “Why doesn't anyone think of rebuilding it? It's on a river. There's a road running through. It's the kind of place any strategic planner would like to have...”  
  
“Well, it's one of those _bad places_ , lass,” said Balin. “Lots of such likes in Eriador. Places that used to be good once upon a time, mansions and towers and citadels and cities sometimes even; until _something_ terrible happened, and everyone either died off or packed up and left, and not come back for years upon years.”  
  
“Tell me, tell me!” said Aoba. “What could possibly have happened here?” She readied her notepad and pen.  
  
“Lots and lots, and most of it unhappy!” said Balin. “This used to be a prosperous burgh, make no mistake; though by my time it was already a shadow of its former self. A plague happened, then banditry happened, then a whole lot of bad things in the South happened, and poof, the place sank into ruin like a rock in a deep pond. Then the bridge – that one in front of you – snapped; and the rest is history.”  
  
He shoveled a spoonful of sausage soup into his mouth, and chewed politely – or as politely as a dwarf could help, which was to say still quite noisy and messy by Yamato-standard.  
  
“The last time I came round, there were still several houses about, home to gaunt Men and their starving children, eking out a living – but that was, what, several decades ago? They must have either perished, or come to a more livable place.”  
  
Yamato felt a chill coming to her shoulder; like she was looking at pictures of some place haunted. Or perhaps, just perhaps, it reminded her of _home_ and what it used to look like (and what it might look like right now with them being ripped from it as they had been).  
  
“Are ye all right, lass?” asked Gloin. “Yer got a cold?”  
  
“No. I'm fine.” she said. _Not the time or place_ , she told herself. “Yamato is fine.” She sipped some water and closed her eyes as the evening breeze caressed her brows. “It would be nice if the place gets the rebuild it deserves, wouldn't it?”  
  
Balin looked at her and shook his head. “We would like to see Erebor restored first,” he said. “But still... if and when that's done, and _if_ another King of Men sits in Annuminas again? Then maybe we could cook up something with dwarven masonry – provided he pays, of course.”  
  
He wolfed down the rest of the plate.  


***

  
In the days that followed Yamato had learnt one thing: One do not simply underestimate dwarves.  
  
They'd got to the sea now, sailing close to the coasts when they could and takeing a bit further to avoid riptides and other unpleasantries. Now the dwarves were not only uncomfortable but also _afraid_ – they were alternating between quaking and spasming and gripping tight to the boat like it was the only thing keeping them from an unknowable, horrible doom. Balin had helpfully shared that dwarves as a rule had a great aversion for the sea and sea-faring alike (“Can't quite explain it, lasses; it's just the way we dwarrows are).  
  
But for people scared stiff by the mere sound of waves, they were hanging on rather well. Well enough, indeed, that they were breaking out in songs and stories whenever the fleet stopped for the night, and it wasn't sailors' shanties or bawdy stories like young men were used to telling aboard Yamato once upon a time. No, they were actual _histories_ they were telling, although how much was true and how much was embellishment maybe only they – or the _kami_ they referred to as Mahal – knew.  
  
They told of Khazad-dum and its wealth. They told of Erebor and its wealth. They told of other places, too, defined by their wealth also, and however many craft they had managed to make, some for sale, some for joy, and most for the fun of making,  
  
On one of those nights Gloin slipped out his locket, and showed it to Aoba of all people with a look of great pride on his face.  
  
“That's me wife 'n me boy,” he said. “Had to forbid the lad from tagging along this quest of ours, too young he is, to walk into a dragon's lair! If I got a coin every time he quoted _Dain Ironfoot_ of all people as proof ye don't need no growing-up to do great deeds, I'd retire to a nice place in Thorin's Hall and make like a wealthy dwarf!”  
  
“Aren't you afraid you aren't coming back at all?” said Aoba, straightforward as she always was.  
  
Gloin glanced at Balin, as if asking for permission, and did not speak until he had got a nod; and this was what he said: “I don't think me lad Gimli would quite object to having a father who is a burned dwarf; literally, even.”  
  
Yamato said nothing. But she passed the dwarf another serving of sausage-and-freshly-picked-berry salad. They'd need the food and the comfort, as much as could be given.  
  
Because come the next day, it would be another struggle with the waves and the sea-sickness and the fear of cold and lonely death beneath the waves. The dwarves would not, of course, call it by name, but Yamato knew.  
  
Yamato knew.  


***

  
On the seventh day, they finally turned into a bay.  
  
The sea rapidly narrowed as the flat coast was switched out for rolling green hills on either side. There were no beaches any more that they could easily make landfall, but the water of the strait itself flowed softly and smoothly beneath Yamato's heel; too smooth, even, for water of an inlet like this.  
  
But soon behind the hills and cliffs emerged the grey and white tops of several tall, pointed towers; and the air was filled now with songs, both real songs and those only fleet girls could hear. She was now sailing, Yamato realized, into a port where there had dwelled many of those which could be like them: ships with histories and many a brave crewmen, ships with personalities, ships with stories to tell, ships that never quite became _kanmusu_ because in this world they were not so needed.  
  
The songs she could hear and feel only grew stronger and more melancholic as the sea turned into river and the cliff closed about them and the towers became larger and taller against silhouette of a great mountain range in the horizon. They told her that those were not ships built for war; nor were they for the transport of wealthy, wine-sipping, suit-wearing clients crossing the Atlantic. No, they were in a way akin to _funeral ships_ : to set sail into the setting sun bearing with them the passengers who would never return to the same port. On the other side of that sea they sailed, wherever it might be, was the promise of true peace – mirthful on one hand, and full of regret on the other: as was all things brought about by eternity.  
  
_The greatest stories never told, isn't it?_  
  
Aoba pulled out her camera.  
  
“Don't,” said Yamato, and her voice was suddenly cross. “It's disrespectful!”  
  
Now the ships came closer to the port, and the dwarves were not moving. There, on the many great piers were perched a small fleet of ships awash in silver beneath a sky so very friendly to seagulls. The city on the seaside was dominated by the tall sail masts: as if it existed only to service those _funeral-ships_. A naval district, like their own, except not made for the pursuit of war but for a cause both quite smaller and so much greater than the naval superiority of a nation indefatigable.  
  
At the pier awaited a very tall figure in a long robe and a correspondingly long beard. He stood there like a statue at first, but when his star-like eyes set upon the fleet, his posture became more animate. He stepped forward, and raised his hand, and waved to them.  
  
There was something grandfatherly about him, and Yamato's mind wandered to the many officers who had been aboard her. The young, the old; the warlike, the peaceable; those who could be a Buddhist monk if they'd gone down that road, those who'd gladly tell lies and commit atrocities that would guarantee the King of Hell pulling out their collective tongues for the rest of eternity...  
  
But those were the folks who had dedicated their lives to _ships_ and the defense of the _Great Harmony_ her namesake.  
  
There was some of the same vibe as she saw there, of the elf standing tall and solemn at the dockside; and yet there was something else entirely different. He did not salute, he did not perform military protocol, he did not have a flag flying behind his back. No, he represented something both far less material, and far more _material_ than a national military.  
  
He represented the sea itself, she realized, and the borderless love for its vastness.  
  
Yamato drew up to the pier-side, and raised her hand in a salute.  
  
“Battleship Yamato.” _The pride of the Japanese naval tradition_. “At your service!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Fanon declaration: if it is part of the ship, then a shipgirl can pull it out and put it away at any time for free. If it is not part of the ship, for example cargo and passengers who aren't fairies, they will have to lug around a barge to carry them. Which is... a minor logistics issue most of the time, but may pose potential problems at some point.
> 
> \- Can I say I like writing Yamato more than most other BBs who I've written in an authority or pseudo-authority position so far? She's a lot less rigid than Nagato (and no Nagamon doesn't make up for it); a lot less gung-ho and didn't-think-this-through than Kongou; a lot less loud than Kirishima, and a whole lot more 'down to earth' than all of them. Mildly military, literally best wife material, and due to what she represents has a lot more philosophical depth than any other IJN ship.
> 
> Oh and given her background she's the most maiden-like of the whole bunch, and is also likely to be prone to be thinking maiden-like stuff, like cute elf boys (as opposed to Dense!Nagato...)


	38. Part the Thirty-Seventh

**PART THE THIRTY-SEVENTH**   
  
**IN WHICH AOBA GORGED HERSELF (ON THINGS TO TAKE PHOTOS OF)**

  
  
  
Aoba thought she had sunk and gone to ship-heaven.  
  
She had an overwhelming desire to start flashing signals that said “I AM AOBA”, except maybe not because the last time she had done that it had gone _amazingly swell_.  
  
Still, it was the kind of scenic beauty any reporter worth their salt should be writing a series of documentary on. There was nothing around except rocks and a white mountain-top and the river below, but so arranged in such a way as to be breathtaking. A ship would rarely get to witness such sites, not unless they broke her apart and use her parts to build a radio tower or something.  
  
They'd left Yamato at Lindon and proceeded with their journey – Yamato's mission was to talk and impress a great lord of the elves. Their mission, well, it was to sell stuff and cart back other stuff. Far less glamorous, sure, but Aoba knew her place.  
  
Besides, she got to look at the great beauty of nature all about her: rocks and jutting boulders, outcroppings of stone, a path carved into the mountainside with signposts set up once every half-mile with the runes of the dwarves.  
  
Now the dwarves had become far less groggy and tired, and far more vigorous. They recovered all the faster, too, as they left the barge and set their feet upon dry, rocky ground.  
  
“This way, this way!” exclaimed Balin, having so recovered his vigor.  
  
The fleet had left the boats at the water's side, and now began a trek along the footpath. Aoba and Jintsuu each packed their load of aluminum into sacks and lugged them on their backs. Now free of any kind of burden save their clothes and the rations they were chewing, the dwarves ran forward, surprisingly fleet-footed for their size and girth. The dwarves grew only stronger and swifter as they left behind the salty air of the gulf, and began ascending steps carved into the foothills of the Mountain.  
  
A walk of five hours without rest culminated, literally, into a plateau of a fashion. The mountain path, mossy and rocky, opened up into a broad, paved road leading towards a large front gate below an arch about ten meters above the plateau floor.  
  
Now the dwarves slowed down, less for want of stamina and more to maintain some sort of decorum. Balin straightened his collar and the hood on his head. Gloin did likewise, and wound his scarf more tightly around his neck. And just on time, too: before the gate stood three look-outs, clad in shining ring mail. Their helmets gleamed like ice beneath the cloudy sun, and their axes were hoisted high.  
  
“Halt!” they exclaimed in unison as the group approached.  
  
“Hail!” exclaimed Balin, and removed his hood now. His grey head and beard was fully visible under the dim sun. Gloin then did the same, and cast his hood upon his shoulder; there was a silly-looking grin on his face.  
  
“Balin? Gloin?” said the dwarves at the gate, and there was a start to their voices. “How did-”  
  
“Hullo and good day, Nar my friend!” said Balin, tipping his head at the dwarf at the head of the formation. “Yes, it is I! The dragon has not taken us yet – and if we play our cards quite right his dwarf-eating days shall soon be over!”  
  
Now the head guard stepped forth. “You said you are Balin?”  
  
He was a very large dwarf with a very large beard – and an almost comically tiny rapier. He blinked once. Then twice. Then thrice.  
  
Balin was blinking back in the same order – and at the end of it the guardsdwarf took off his helmet. And then the two dwarves' forehead crashed into each other with a sound like rock crunching that made even Aoba (for all her heavy-cruiser-ness) cringe.  
  
The guard's face then relaxed, and grimness left it.  
  
“So that letter isn't trickery, from elves or worse!” said Nar. “Still, still, how did you get back around here so quick? It's hundreds of miles from the Misty Mountains, if the letter reads right!”  
  
Now that he had lifted the iron mask off his face, his face clearly reminded Aoba of those civilian visitors who had seen a naval yard for the first time: appropriately awed and shaken. His eyes only widened more when Gloin turned about towards Aoba and Jintsuu.  
  
“That's all thanks to the two ladies here, my lad,” he said. “As thankful as I can be for a journey of one thousand miles over water no less, in fewer than ten days!”  
  
The other two dwarf-guards had now converged around them, lifting up their war-masks as well, eager to hear and glean any juicy bit of gossip they could get from the introduction. But Nar waved his thick arm about.  
  
“Back to post, lads,” he said. “And you, my dear friends, you've got to see Lady Dis, right now,” said the dwarf-guard. “She's been beside herself with anticipation since she got Thorin's letter! If you could get her to _eat_ something, it would be quite good indeed! Next drink down the Ale Association's on me!”  
  
“My thoughts exactly, and I'd drink to the very bright prospect of this quest after all!” said Balin. “Come now, my dear misses! Let's see to my cousin's wellbeing, and maybe some business at it!”  


***

  
That was the tenth time or so Aoba had gasped.  
  
She was inside a mountain, and not just in any cave. She was inside a _town_ carved into the mountain, not unlike one of those secret government bases that Unno Juuzo- _sama_ would have dreamt up had he been alive. Except this one was far more spacious; and there was a distinct lack of colorful blinking machines, Tesla coils crackling with energy, or jars full of formaldehyde containing lobotomized alien specimens.  
  
“Would it be fine if I took photos?” she aksed anxiously. “Just a few-”  
  
“You can snap as many as you like when we're out of the sitting-room,” was Balin's answer.  
  
What there _were_ , was an array of so many metal dors, bronze and brass with steel bosses, arranged in angular, street-like hallways of stone. They made their way through several tunnel-hallways of that fashion, until they came to something of a plaza. The underground hall was some fifty meter in either dimension and ten from ceiling to floor, with small kiosks of sort either carved or else built into its side. There was a gleam of torches set inside open-topped lamps along a 'path' running down the center, paved with marble and lined with granite.  
  
“That's Oin's shop,” said Gloin proudly as they passed down the center of the plaza, pointing at a very large kiosk with a locked square door. “Read that? _'Away on Dragon-slaying Business'_. Always the optimistic old chap he is.”  
  
At some point, Aoba did not know when, Jintsuu was abandoning her mild-mannered politeness, and began gawking around too. There were, after all, plenty of shiny things to distract even a fleet girl: large pendants with jewels set into them, fine robes and armor that looked like robes, large swords and axes that shone like fire under the torchlight (Tenryuu would want one, surely). And then there were small stalls where large strings of sausages were being hung under coal-flame. There was a fine aroma of meat, spices, honey and beer, and suddenly Aoba was thankful neither Yamato nor Akagi was around. The stall-keepers would never know what hit them.  
  
Then they came to a very large stair-well, some twenty meters across, that spiraled above and below like a great drill into the rock.  
  
“This way, please,” said Balin solemnly, and began stepping up the stairway.  
  
“And I'll have to excuse myself now!” said Gloin. “I'm distant enough of a cousin from Thorin's folks I might as well be a near-stranger. Go ahead now, doubtless yer got things meant for family ears only!”  
  
Balin shrugged – sympathetically. “Knew you've been dying to see the wife and lad again,” said Balin. “Just go and see them! Who knows, chances like this might not come again!”  
  
Gloin shuddered. “Well, yes, that too,” he said, and Aoba got the impression that had he been tall enough he would have given both cruisers shoulder-pats. “Oh, right, do feel free to lodge in me place after this. Knowing me lad Gimli and how _sore_ he is, not getting' picked for the expedition and all, he's goin' to bombard ye all with more questions than you can possibly answer!”  
  
Aoba smirked and nodded. _Challenge accepted._  
  
A wave of goodbye and a climb of about a hundred steps later, they came through a ,much less imposing steel door that opened into a small waiting room with another steel door at its back. Balin came to its front, and began rapping against the steel.  
  
“Do come in,” came a loud female voice from behind.  
  
Balin drew a stiff breath, then pushed the door in.  
  
The first thing Aoba did setting her foot inside, was look around. For a princess' hall it was a simplistic business; it was maybe slightly bigger than the Admiralty's guest lobby, and about the same size as a Heavy Cruiser dorm room. Furniture was scant, simple and entirely carved out of stone: a stone bed, a stone table, and a stone dresser at the far corner, with a bronze full-height mirror (which was only full-height by dint of its occupant being a dwarf). It stood to reason, too: there were not many dwarves around; their Princess would be far less of a big deal than, say, Their Imperial Highnesses the Princesses of Japan.  
  
Then Aoba looked forward, and saw that the princess of the dwarves, if she could be so-called, looked unlike any kind of princess known to Aoba.  
  
She was extremely stocky, she had a beard though no moustache, her hair was long and braided and dirty-blond, and her eyes were dark and sunken, and her cheeks had sunken somewhat – fully fathomable, if the guards' words were true. Not the kind of image a reporter would imagine of a _princess_ , but if that was what she was, that was what she was. It was all she could do to hold her journalistic intrepidism in, and not rush at her with a cascade of question.  
  
She was already waiting at her table, and there were several large silver goblets already arranged against a silver carafe at the middle. As they entered the room, the princess rose – propping herself up with both hands.  
  
“Balin,” she said, sweeping her gaze cross the group. “And you are... from the naval district, that my brother has spoken of in his letter?”  
  
“That I am, cousin, and that they are!” said Balin. “The ladies Jintsuu and Aoba, representing the naval district where Thorin and the Company now lodge until such time as is convenient for crossing the Misty Mountains!”  
  
Jintsuu bowed, and so did Aoba. The air in the room was so tense, and it wasn't entirely because of the lacking ventilation.  
  
“And I am Dis, daughter of Thrain, son of Thror, formerly the King Under the Mountain,” said the Princess. “My place in this settlement is small next to my brother and sons', but I do what I can to help. How may I, then, help you? You would not have happened to be here, to visit an aged widow, just to bandy words and formalities, would you?”  
  
Jintsuu stepped forward. “ _Denka_ ,” she said. “We bring words from our Admiral seeking permission to trade and for the delivery of the terms Thorin- _kakka_ had agreed with us. He would trade your steel and coal and bauxite for our aid, and for aluminum.”  
  
Then they set down their sack of aluminum, bars and rods and scraps alike, and presented it before the table.  
  
The princess' reaction was far less... covetous, so to speak, than Aoba thought it would be – if what Akashi had spoken of Thorin and Balin's reaction was no exaggeration. She merely gave the content a cursory look, as if none of aluminum's excellent qualities mattered.  
  
“I should thank you for bringing this to our people; no doubt the metallurgists could make most excellent use of such metal,” she said at last. “Yet to me a million pounds of such treasure would be worth nothing next to news of my sons and my brother.” She straightened her posture, and looked away from the sacks. “How fare them, Balin, and can they be persuaded to give up after all this?”  
  
“Give up, Dis?” said Balin. “We've been through this, my dear cousin. Thorin would not rest until Erebor is reclaimed, and-”  
  
“So the answer remains no,” said the Princess. “Is that all he is sending you home for, Balin? To inform us that he desires to trade our iron for help to return to that accursed place at long last?”  
  
“It was your home, Dis, as it was mine.”  
  
“And yet in the quest to reclaim it I have lost my grandfather, my father, my brother and my husband,” said the princess. “I _am_ sorry, but I have dared to hope that whatever Thorin had run into on the way might have persuaded him of the futility of this Quest of his.”  
  
“My Admiral has made it clear to all personnel in the fleet, both fleet girls and enlisted men,” said Jintsuu quickly, “that no harm should come to Thorin- _kakka_.”  
  
“And we would be able to do that,” added Aoba, “quite handily, too, if we're well-supplied.”  
  
“And _are_ you?” said Dis.  
  
“That brings us _exactly_ to the reason we are here today!” said Aoba. “There are... quite a few things we hoped you could lend us.”  
  
“Not for free, of course!” said Jintsuu quickly. “The aluminum we brought would be good for exchange, we'd thought, and-”  
  
“I could see that,” said the princess. “But what use would you be, against a dragon? Thorin had sworn he'd seen a citadel full of wondrous things, mighty craft and things bordering on the arcane magic unseen since our kin delved deep in Nogrod and Belegost – whose name few alive remember. And yet-”  
  
“If it helps to persuade you, _Denka_ , we could demonstrate ourselves,” said Jintsuu.  
  
But Dis waved her hands. “You misunderstand. I do not doubt the power you may indeed hold – because you are standing right here with my cousin who would otherwise not be here before me so quickly, not even if he sprinted every waking hour like a horse would gallop cross the plain. And not least because Thorin had so written and he had never had cause to lie to me.”  
  
Now she stood up from the table, and began pacing about, her hands behind her back. She moved closer to Jintsuu, and now suddenly her eyes turned fierce and full of fire, and she stared long at Jintsuu like she was the sole cause of her children's plight and suffering.  
  
“But I would ask you this: My sons desire to join a cause of honor, as sons of Durin, to recover a lost home or die in the attempt,” she said. “Could you save them from their demise if that were where they are headed? Were the dragon to be upon Fili and Kili, and you were but a dozen pace away, could you cover them? Were they to stand before a row of wicked goblins stretching their bows, could you shield them? Were the wicked deeds of such Men and Elves who had ever troubled our kin to brew and bubble again, could you protect them? If you cannot do that, then it does not matter how mighty you weapons are or how many trolls you can blow apart.”  
  
Having said all of that, the dwarf-princess seemed to shrink; she now looked tiny and tired, like an old woman who had given her every relative to the cause of her people and got back nothing but sorrow.  
  
“I mean no offense; were you mothers you would have understood the fear that lingers now in my heart.”  
  
For long Aoba said nothing, and neither did Jintsuu.  
  
They were not mothers, and had never tried. But they were ships. They were ships of a defeated nation, once upon a time, upon whose decks many had perished with them. Sons, husbands, fathers, all of whom, for good or ill, passing long before their time. Jintsuu was clenching her fist, and Aoba could not find quite the right words to describe exactly how she felt.  
  
“We understand,” was all that Jintsuu said. It was not very diplomatic, or very persuasive, or very _appropriate_ for a mother so anxious, but it was the only thing, truly the only thing, any fleet girl could possibly say given the circumstance.  
  
Now the princess fell back to her chair, and clasped her hands, and looked about the room. She sighed.  
  
“I am not the King of these Halls; my brother is, and if he has decreed that we trade with you to provide your armies with what furnishing it needs, who am I to defy his will?” she said, her voice so terribly mournful. “All the same, if you would not take offense at a mother's selfish request: would you give me your word that you would protect Fili and Kili to the best of your ability, and would not give up on them? Not until it is certain that Mahal himself has dictated they would have to depart for the halls of our forefather before their time?”  
  
Jintsuu was starting to fluster. “I... I... I'm not sure if I am authorized... I'm not really able to make such a... such a promise...” She crossed her palms on her chest, and took a step back. “But, but that's not... that's not to say I do not sympathize, and-”  
  
It would, in fact, have not worked for any other ship. But Aoba, well, she was a heavy cruiser with a _correspondence_ job on the side, and that meant she'd been taking quite a bit of time familiarizing herself with all the fancy newfangled technology the latter half of the 20th century had brought about – _and_ taught her fairies about them.  
  
Sort of.  
  
“I may have another solution,” she said. “The wonders of modern telecommunication, at your service!”  
  
Jintsuu gasped. “What are you _doing_ , Aoba- _san_?”  
  
“What else?” she said. “Get the only person authorized to make a promise, if it would help!”  
  
Then she turned her voice inwards, towards her fairy crews.  
  
“ _All radio amplifiers online. Get the secure channel... well, secured_ ,” she ordered. “ _Maximum volume. Get me HQ, this instance!_ ” She waited, and waited, and waited for a bit, until a dozen ' _desu_ ' gave her the confirmation.  
  
“ _Port to Harmony_ ,” came a voice easily recognizable as Ooyodo's business, serious, no-nonsense tone.  
  
Aoba swallowed her giggle. “ _Moshi_ - _moshi_ , Ooyodo- _san_?” she said.  
  
The signal was dotted with interference, but otherwise perfectly serviceable. “ _Aoba-san_?” came Ooyodo's wary voice. “ _Did something go wrong, Aoba-san? Aoba-san?_ ”  
  
“No, no, not at all, not at all! Is the Admiral available?”  
  
“ _He is, but..._ ” Ooyodo paused a bit. “ _What exactly has happened, Aoba-san?_ ”  
  
“Let's just say,” Aoba said, “one of Thorin- _kakka_ 's closest relatives has a word for the Admiral. Or two. Or three.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I was really tempted to write “Moshi-moshi, Kaigun-Bu?” for Aoba's hello because USS Hammann.
> 
> \- Seriously, I did many hours of research on radio technology and realized there's basically nothing that can enable radio transmission at that range save for modern telecommunication infrastructure. How about we just hand-wave it as a combination of Aoba, the effect of her having the father of Japanese sci-fi as a crewman at some point, and whatever modern telecom infrastructure the base does retain, for the sake of the narrative?
> 
> \- Denka (「殿下」): Another rare honorific, meaning “Your/His/Her Highness”. Reserved for princes, princesses and other junior members of the Imperial Family.


	39. Part the Thirty-Eighth

**PART THE THIRTY-EIGHTH**   
  
**IN WHICH NAGATO WOULD (NOT) HAVE QUALITY TIME**

  
  
  
“Door's open.”  
  
When Elladan pushed the door ajar and presented himself in Lady Nagato's office, he was greeted with an almost serene picture.  
  
The squirrel was curled up in her little box on top of a chair next to her table: a wooden box full of shredded paper, cosy and homely enough for an animal. The Lady herself was sitting at her desk, clearing up the last of the day's work. Her eyes were on a piece of note-paper, and she was in the middle of reciting something. From the sound of her tone, it was probably not meant to be a poem.  
  
Lady Nagato's assistant was hunched over the machinery they called a _radio_ ; she spun back the moment he passed the threshold. “Oh, Elladan-san!” Miss Haguro said. She stopped whatever she was doing, and quickly shuffled behind her mistress.  
  
“I was wondering, milady, if you would care for a walk,” he said. “It is a very good night, and I do have something for which I wish to ask for your counsel.”  
  
Lady Nagato looked up. “Incidentally,” she said, “so have I, Elladan-san. Haguro-san, would you join us?”  
  
Elladan narrowed his eyes as Miss Haguro nodded and stood up. “Is it necessary, milady?” he said.  
  
“Yes it is, Elladan-san. Strict order from the Admiral that I... am not to be seen alone with you at all time,” said Lady Nagato without amusement. “I wouldn't worry if I were you; I would trust Haguro-san more than anyone but my sister. And if it is something she _really_ has no business knowing, then maybe it would be good not to speak of it at all.”  
  
Elladan drew a soft breath. It was an ill tiding for an otherwise good night, he thought, and the 'rumour' Mithrandir had spoken of must have something to do with it. _Even the wisest cannot foresee all rumours..._  
  
“It shall be as you ask,” he said, and bowed.  


***

  
For a while they had walked, all three of them, along the cobbled road that wound around the Last Homely House. The moon was now fully up, and the sky was alit with countless stars. The air was cool, too, and full of the chirping of birds and the small singing of Elladan's kin from near and far. It was the kind of evening suitable for gathering of friends and for carousal, or for a walk through the moonlit paths, or songs and dances, or such things as are fair and melodious.  
  
But none of them had spoken yet, not a single word. Elladan, because he thought it would be unwise and uncouth to broach that topic which he should like to discuss so suddenly. And Lady Nagato was keeping her eyes on the ground, as if whatever thought on her mind had yet to be settled.  
  
At long last, she looked up at him, and from her pocket drew a small envelope folded in two.  
  
“What do you think of this?” she said quietly, and handed the letter to him..  
  
“A letter, milady?” Elladan glanced at the envelope and the broken seal. “From Saruman!” He should have well expected that.  
  
Now he took the letter in his hands, and as he unfurled it the Magic and the Craft of Saruman's words filled him, so persuasive and benevolent and so _wise_ as it seemed. But instead of heralding joy and faith as was its wont nearly every other time, this time the weaving of Saruman's words made Elladan uneasy. Did Lady Nagato know of Saruman's word-crafting and its influence upon those who would read and hear of it? From the grave look on her face, he could only assume that yes, she did, and no, Saruman's design had impressed her none at all.  
  
He read through the letter, and it was as though Lady Nagato's anxiousness had bled into him, that the otherwise perfectly reasonable and amicable words of the White Wizard only made him more uneasy, not less, and that was in spite of his otherwise most excellent crafting and weaving of words.  
  
“It is...” he began, then stopped. “It is quite a typical letter to come from the hands of Saruman the White. Very material aid he offers, in exchange for such knowledge as he thirsts for. He has made such exchanges, often and quite helpfully so, with the Realm of the South.” Here he slowed his steps, and looked aside at Lady Nagato. “But you are suspicious of him, milady, are you not?”  
  
“I do not want to make any assumption, in one way or another,” she said, shaking her head once. “It would be excellent if he can deliver his promise. There is a lot of things we can share if he is only after knowledge; because we have quite a few of negligible strategic interest that can still benefit him somehow.” Then she stopped in place, and fixed her gaze at him. “But you're right, Elladan-san. I _am_ not at ease with the idea of having to talk to him.”  
  
“I would be lying if I said Saruman is at all an easy wizard to speak with, because in several ways he is not, even among wizards,” said Elladan. “He is very well-learnt, very dedicated to his craft, very gifted in every kind of lore that would be helpful, and to the layman may appear... overwhelming. Great plans and great designs he does have, too, that even my Father does not entirely comprehend.”  
  
“And the _manner_ the letter was delivered and meant to be read. What do you say of it?”  
  
And that was the confirmation Elladan wanted _._ “You know, don't you, milady?” he said.  
  
“You can say that,” she said. “I don't know what you would even _call_ that sort of... of thing he did to it, but imagine if this letter and its _oh so subtle_ effect on the mind would come to some other poor unaware officer's desk first and not mine. We battleships are quite well equipped to deal with things that... that mess with the mind. Others... probably not as well.”  
  
The thought of needing to defend Saruman was almost ridiculous to Elladan. Saruman needed no defending: he was mighty and wise, and if he had wanted to defend himself he was persuasive enough even without his Voice. But Elladan told himself, _this was the right thing to do_ : because for all of his pushiness and haughtiness, Saruman _was_ a friend to his folk.  
  
“I do not think he meant for manipulation, milady, even had that been his intention, to be done so crudely,” he said. “No, it is the habit of a very learnt wizard, that his very great craft with the making of letters and the arrangement of words would have such strong effect on the mind even of the Wise, with or without his conscious desire. His writing has always had on even my mind an extremely persuasive effect, even – and especially – since not all of its wisdom is evident in his words alone. And the power of his Letter is a degree less than that of his Voice, that we are ever thankful he is on our side and not the Enemy's.”  
  
Now Lady Nagato was biting her lip. “I should... I _will_ have to speak to him. If his terms are true, it's too beneficial for us to let slip. But then...” Her heels clicked upon the cobbled path. “What would you do, Elladan-san, if you were me?”  
  
Long did Elladan weigh his options, and his words, and found none to be entirely satisfactory. “I cannot tell you whether to trust him, though I should let you know I wish I could.” he said at last. “But if you would ask for my counsel, then this is what I say: speak to him, but do not pay overly much attention to his voice or his elaborate gestures. Saruman's Voice would make him sound far more sagely, or selfless, or benevolent than he has designs for – not to say he is neither that I mentioned.”  
  
He looked at her, and caught her gaze at him at the same time. “What do you think about Saruman- _san_?” she asked. “As a _person_?”  
  
“Me?” Elladan said, and laughed. “Apart from his being an indispensable friend and ally of our House for two thousand years, and possibly had known my progenitors for long before that in a land far beyond?” Then once more graveness overcome his voice. “I am afraid of him,” he said, and quite meant it.  
  
Lady Nagato shuddered. “Afraid?” Her voice acquired a certain sharpness. “Why would you ally yourselves with someone you are afraid of?”  
  
“There are so many ways you can be afraid of something, milady,” he said. “You can be afraid of an enemy mighty and cruel, that much is natural of the heart of Men and Elves. You can be afraid of sudden terrors and wicked deeds, too, for much the same reason. You can be afraid of the unknown, and unknowable, like what fate awaits Men beyond the confines of the world, or the manner of the Elves' eventual demise, when the world shall be broken once more and then rebuilt to a better design of the One. That, too, is part of what it means to be Children of the One.”  
  
Now they came across a pavilion well lit under the moonlight, and Lady Nagato was shuddering a little. Her garment had always exposed a fair bit of skin to the elements. Elladan took off his cloak, and wrapped it around her bare shoulders.  
  
Lady Nagato blinked. “Elladan-san?” But Elladan had withdrawn his hand, quite deftly, before the lady could possibly return his cloak.  
  
“And then,” he continued, as though nothing had happened. “you can be afraid of crafts and designs that makes fire and explosions and other things inherently hostile to fair and beautiful things, and of the mind that would devise such devices. That is Saruman's domains, for he has very keenly studied the way the Enemy raised fire and make clever designs solely for the purpose of killing and maiming and causing suffering.”  
  
He now gestured towards the chairs next to the table. Lady Nagato sat down, eyes still trained on him, followed by Miss Haguro on the chair immediately next to her. Then Elladan sat down last.  
  
“I do not doubt his fervour or his desire towards the downfall of the Enemy,” he said. “but his method... yes, it might be shameful, but I shall admit to be so afraid of it, and of him by dint of association.”  
  
Lady Nagato crossed her arms – and now she wrapped his cloak more closely about her. “Then,” she said abruptly, “are you afraid of me? I am a _battleship. Blowing up other ships_ is the sole reason for my existence.”  
  
Now he looked at her, and yet again their eyes met; and any thought that she was speaking in jest vanished; and Elladan at once thought this was the kind of questions whose answer poorly given could make or break a friendship.  
  
He would have lied, because it might be in some way the wiser thing to say. He firmly and completely rejected that notion of _wisdom._ An Eldar of his House would not stoop to white lies – and in this case the lie would not be _white_ at all.  
  
“Yes,” he said. “And no.”  
  
Lady Nagato narrowed her eyes. Her gaze was hard and accusing, and only mellowed down after giving him a good look-over. Elladan suspected if there was just a ghost of a grin on his face then, this fashion of friendship he'd been cultivating with her would have come well to an end, as abruptly as it had begun.  
  
“Why 'yes'? And why 'no'?” she asked.  
  
“Yes, for the same reason that Saruman makes me afraid, and I feel no shame so admitting,” said Elladan. “Are we not afraid of fire, though it is by its warmth and heat that we cook our food and forge our tools? Are we not afraid of the sharpening of blades, though a sharp edge can till fields and carve beautiful things? Are we not afraid of the merciless hooves of horses and wild beasts set loose on a stampede, though we may well tame them and commit them to good ends?”  
  
“And you, milady, you have all of that power, to kill and to destroy and to cause pain and bring about ruin, and so much more; that if it is wicked destruction that you have in mind, there shall be none who may stand before you. There shall be none also, save those unwise or of unsound mind, who would not be unnerved by what you are and what you are capable of, for fear you should turn your wrath at them.”  
  
He held his breath, and tried to stop himself from looking at Lady Nagato too closely. If he was to damage his friendship with her beyond repair, he had already done so.  
  
As it happened, that was not the case.  
  
“I see,” said the lady. “But why 'no'?”  
  
Only then did Elladan allow himself a stronger breath of air. “No,” he said, “because I'm quite sure even with all that power at your disposal, you would not use it; not, at any rate, for the mindless sort of slaughter that delights nobody but the cruel and bloodthirsty.”  
  
“I was made first as a weapon of war, Elladan-san,” said Lady Nagato. “If I had been told to sink a vessel full of people who have done no wrong except to follow a cause against the interest of Japan and my Emperor, I would have done so without question.”  
  
A flash of intellect came across Elladan, fast as lightning. “If this is still true, milady,” he said, “why would you refer to your willingness to commit such act, in the past tense?”  
  
“Because...”  
  
“Because,” said Elladan, “it would have been difficult to resist an unjust order had you been only a ship, would it not? But now, that you are not only a ship but something else entirely-”  
  
Courtesy prevented him from staring at her, but Elladan did not _need_ to do so, to know Lady Nagato was blushing to a degree. “P-perhaps,” she said quickly, stumbling on her own words. “But... but I'm still a soldier. And soldiers... soldiers obey orders, and fight, and... Violence is our nature.”  
  
“But is it truly?” Elladan shook his head. “Did you think I did not see, o fair lady?” he said. “The squirrel sleeps soundly now in the little box you made for him. And it was a fine box, if I should say so myself!”  
  
Lady Nagato shuddered, and this time Elladan _knew_ it was not because of the cold. “There- there are plenty of truly abhorrent men who are good to their pets,” she said.  
  
“I don't disagree,” said Elladan. “Yet you're also kind, willing to listen, and though you might often be annoyed or cross with things beyond your control (and far more often than I would have wished), you've been seeking the most peaceable solutions first, haven't you? It might be infinitely more assuring to speak to those who come without terrible armament to bear; but it would also be assuring, in entreaty and in carousal, to speak to those whose would reason and courtesy at all time.”  
  
Her face softened, and a smile came to her lips. “You're flattering me, Elladan-san” she said. “There's also the fact that frightening the son of the ally who's been keeping my subordinates fed is a profoundly _bad_ idea.” She looked up now, her fluster suppressed. Somewhat. “But that's a compliment I can take. I guess.”  
  
For a moment they did not speak. Elladan was looking at the stars, and the corner of his eyes caught Lady Nagato doing much the same. Her assistant, still sitting sheepishly to her side, may or may not have been turning increasingly redder. In the distance, his kin were now singing, among the woods and upon the river beyond the waterfall.  
  
“May I ask you something else?” he said. “That's perchance unrelated to these unhappy questions?”  
  
Then Lady Nagato's face turned, quick as a breeze, grim and humourless once again. The blushing did not stop entirely,.  
  
“I'd rather you do not,” she said. “If it is not what I think you want to say, then I hope you wouldn't take offense if I should excuse myself now. The night is drawing late and I... I've got much work tomorrow. But if it _is_...” Her breaths were small now, almost suffocatingly so. “I have too much responsibility and... and too little time, Elladan-san,” she said, matter-of-factly; she turned her face away, but not before Elladan caught a very quick flush on her cheeks. “I'm sorry.” _She knows_.  
  
And that was indeed all that she said. She was beginning to speak like an elf: both no and yes; it was both confusticating and entirely fathomable.  
  
“I see,” said Elladan. It was an utterance in disappointment of a sort. “Would it be presumptuous of me to speak of such matters again some time-” He exhaled, and added quickly, “once your duties become less burdensome?”  
  
“We will have to see where the future and this land of yours would bring us,” she said. Then she stood up, and gestured at her assistant. “Good night, Elladan- _san_ ,” she said, and bowed so politely. “Thank you for the advice and insight.” She took his cloak off her shoulders, and – just as Elladan was standing up – placed it back on his. “And the coat.” She faced him now, and tied the knot lightly about his neck. "I appreciate it."  
  
“And thank you too, milady, for the company.”  
  
He stood there waving as the two women, and then the shadow of the ships that they _were_ , vanished beneath the starlit sky.  
  
There, Elladan Elrond's son saw, etched against the shadow of the evening, the silhouette of a very great ship; and wondered if the Eldar's love for the sea could at all explain his growing fondness for a woman who was also a ship.  
  
Or – now he looked up at the sky where his grandfather sailed still with one of the _Silmarili_ upon his brows – if it would be indeed appropriate at all of a feeling.  


***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- There, the Tolkien Romance Deficiency Syndrome strikes again! (Although Wingman Saruman Confirmed?)
> 
> \- This chapter has been brought to you, in part, due to the incredibly short stick Nagato always seems to draw when it comes to romance, in canon and fanon alike. (inb4 Blizzard of the Red Castle Nagato goes yandere...)


End file.
